


(in a special way) we share the same glow

by Edgebug



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Chess, Deaf Character, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Frottage, Grief, Healthy Sibling Relationships, In Which The Grandmaster Has A Crisis, Infinity War? Never Met Her, M/M, Mid-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Mind Melding, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Roughly Canon-Compliant, Soulmates Heavily Implied, Thor: Ragnarok (2017) Spoilers, and Loki Really Wants To Get Laid, the Wildest Age Gap Imaginable, two old bastards falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 21:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12896904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edgebug/pseuds/Edgebug
Summary: Loki blinks a few times. This day is just getting odder and odder. “You’re giving me a suite."“Well, yeah, you’re my guest, what, am I gonna make a guest sleep in a closet or something? I’m a dictator, not an animal,“ the Grandmaster scoffs. “First you think I’m going to kill you, then you think I’m going todefileyou, and now you think I’m going to, what, put you in the basement and, and feed you scraps? Is your opinion of everyone this low or are you just—or do I just throw off some kind of—some kind of—"“Grandmaster,” Loki says, interrupting him from his tangent. “With a history like mine, one learns to be... cautious.”





	(in a special way) we share the same glow

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Одно сияние на двоих](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15814080) by [fandom_Loki_all_inclusive_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Loki_all_inclusive_2018/pseuds/fandom_Loki_all_inclusive_2018), [Shuji_Chou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuji_Chou/pseuds/Shuji_Chou)



> Hey Guys, What If Thor: Ragnarok Was Actually A Slow Burning Love Story Between Loki And The Grandmaster?: a fic by tunglr user edgebug
> 
> apologies in advance

 “You’ve got quite the brain in your head, don’t you, ah... what was your name again?”

The Grandmaster’s bright, intelligent eyes study Loki closely, appraising.

“Loki. Odinson,” he adds, a stab of pain curling through his heart at the name he finally claims, “of Asgard. And yes. Yes, I do have quite the brain,” he says, knowing that there’s no point in modesty here, the Grandmaster—clad in ostentatious gold and metallic blue—doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate it.

Loki had escaped from the holding cells, of course. It hadn’t been difficult magic, but it was employed in a way that had required finesse. It had been clever.

There were three guards who rotated in eight hour shifts. Loki had studied them, learned their names, their speech patterns, their appearances. On the second evening of his capture, Loki took the form of Guard One and feigned being accidentally stuck in the cell block, thus tricking Guard Three, who had just begun his shift, into opening the door to let him out. Then it was just a matter of swiftly incapacitating him, throwing him into the cell block, then taking  _his_  form (and his keycard) and locking him in while Loki left, no-one the wiser. In Guard Three's form, he would be able to leave the tower and find a ship to take him off this dump of a planet, and that would have been that... not that he had anywhere to go, but anywhere was better than a place where he was expected to fight in an arena for a crowd's amusement.

Except he was caught. He was caught, somehow, and the disc in his neck was set off. He was on the ground within seconds. He doesn't know why he was caught or how. All he knows is that he must have missed some detail. Must have been somehow careless. Mentally he swears, grits his teeth. Careless. And it had been his last shot. He knew that he had to escape the cells before his time in the arena, because in the arena he would be forced to use his  _seiðr_  to defend himself, and once it became known that he had magic, he would certainly be placed in a higher-security cell. This had been his only chance at freedom.

And yet, he wasn't thrown back into a stronger cell. He was brought all the way to the Grandmaster himself—a tall, garishly dressed man with a penchant for metallic blue. He'd immediately waved his hand and Loki's shift into Guard Three had been forcibly undone, much to Loki's shock and displeasure.

The man had seen straight through his  _seiðr_  and, more importantly,  _dissolved it_ without so much as making an effort.

It’s terrifying beyond measure. It’s also intriguing. What manner of creature is this Grandmaster?

"Well, Loki, I saw your escape,” the Grandmaster says casually. “It was impressive. You had him completely snowed. Your shape shifting was—was it true, ah, true shape shifting or a glamour?"

The Grandmaster seems genuinely enthusiastic and interested in Loki's methodology. "It was true shape shifting, for what it's worth," Loki says, knowing it's impressive, and if the Grandmaster knows the difference between shape changing and a glamour, he'll know it's impressive too. You risk wavering with a glamour; shape shifting is much more difficult to establish, but once you do, it's easier to maintain than a simple glamour. A glamour relies on changing people's perceptions, not your actual form. If you manage to truly change your shape, the perceptions don't have to be manually altered at all. Which is more stable, because the minds of sapient creatures are disgustingly fallible.

The Grandmaster gives a low whistle. "Oh, wow. Well, it was impeccable. That’s good magic. It was real good magic," he says, and some traitorous part of Loki preens under the admiration. "Graceful, even,” the Grandmaster goes on, “really amazing artistry, absolutely...” he lets out a sigh, “...gorgeous.”

How had the Grandmaster seen? There has been no surveillance. There was no footage. Loki had sent out servitors made of  _seiðr_ to case the area; they had sensed nothing capable of reporting back to the Grandmaster. Somehow, though, the Grandmaster had seen him. He supposes it doesn't matter how. Loki draws a breath. The fact is that the Grandmaster let him try to escape and knew it was happening. He was watching, and let him do it, and for what? Entertainment? To toy with him?

“With all due respect,” Loki says evenly, “why do I stand before you now and not in the most secure cell in this tower? Or dead,” he adds.

“Dead?” The man has the audacity to look confused for a split second. “Oh, jeez, c’mon, I’m not—killing you would be a waste,” the Grandmaster says. “I can think of a few better uses for you than throwing you in the arena,” he adds, his gaze raking slowly over Loki’s body.

“Better uses,” Loki murmurs. Something in the back of his skull rattles and rings unpleasantly, heralding danger. The shock disc at his neck itches.

“Oh, yeah,” the Grandmaster purrs, eyes half-lidded, “I’m sure there’s lots of interesting things you can do.”

Of course. How disappointingly, disgustingly predictable. This isn’t the first time Loki’s had to debase himself to get out of a situation or simply to keep himself alive (or improve his chances, or shift politics in his favor, or gain valuable information), and knowing his bad luck, it likely won’t be the last. He maintains eye contact, almost defiant, as he lowers himself to his knees as gracefully as he can and reaches for the tie holding the Grandmaster’s robe shut.

Instantly three separate emotions move quickfire across the Grandmaster’s face. Puzzlement, then shock, then  _horror._ Now that’s a reaction Loki hasn’t gotten before, not to this kind of thing. “Whoa! What— _no!”_ The Grandmaster takes a few awkward half-hopping steps backward. “Holy—holy shit, I was thinking you could play me at, at checkers or something, not—“ His eyes are wild, he makes several quick and expansive but nondescript hand gestures.

Did he just get... rejected? “Checkers,” Loki says flatly, utterly disbelieving; he blinks a few times, slowly lowers his arms. “You want to play  _checkers?”_

The Grandmaster throws his hands in the air. “Or chess, may—maybe chess! I’m not, not picky—you can get off the— _please_  get off the ground,” he begs, that horrified note still in his voice. He’s speaking in sentence fragments as if he can’t pull himself together enough to get out a complete, finished thought.

The plead echoes in his ears.  _Please get off the ground._ Loki slowly rises back up to his feet, caution radiating from him.

“You seriously thought I was going to assault you?” The Grandmaster babbles on. “You honestly—oh, for the love of all the planets in the sky, do I really give off that kind of vibe?” Before Loki can answer, the Grandmaster has frantically pawed for an intercom button and slammed on it. “ _Topaz!_ Do I give off some kind of weird vibe?!”

A crackly voice comes back through. “ _Define weird, sir?”_

Loki neatly folds his hands behind his back, coughs lightly to get the man’s attention. “Grandmaster, shall we just chalk this up to an awkward misunderstanding?” he prompts, trying desperately to hide his horrified, incredulous amusement.

The Grandmaster’s bright eyes land on him again. “I—yeah, that’s for the best, probably,” he says, “I can see how you might have—gotten the wrong, ah, the wrong idea there, but—“

“It might perhaps have something to do with the electrocution,” Loki says as if he’s benevolently giving him a hint.

The Grandmaster grimaces. “Does that say ‘weird?’  _Ugh,_ of course it does, combined with the—you know what, let’s just take care of that right now.” The Grandmaster waves his hand and the little disc falls from Loki’s neck and clatters to the ground. Loki’s hand automatically flies up to touch the place where it has been. “That’s gotta be better, right?”

“Much,” Loki agrees, rubbing his neck.  _Telekinesis,_ he thinks,  _or perhaps matter manipulation?_ The Grandmaster had done  _something_ to remove the disc from Loki without touching it or using its remote control, and the casual use of complex magic is telling. Loki briefly considers making a break for it but then realizes that he is unarmed and the Grandmaster had already seen through his  _seiðr_ and dismantled it. The man, whatever he is, is unspeakably powerful.

Loki’s stuck, he realizes blankly, even if he doesn’t have that damned disc’s spindly legs burrowed into his skin.

“Okay, so I’m just gonna have someone show you to your suite,” the Grandmaster says as he pushes another button to summon a servant, Loki supposes.

Loki blinks a few times. This day is just getting odder and odder. “You’re giving me a suite."

“Well, yeah, you’re my guest, what, am I gonna make a guest sleep in a closet or something? I’m a dictator, not an  _animal_ ,“ the Grandmaster scoffs. “First you think I’m going to kill you, then you think I’m going to defile you, and now you think I’m going to, what, put you in the basement and, and feed you scraps? Is your opinion of  _everyone_ this low or are you just—or do I just throw off some kind of—some kind of—“

“Grandmaster,” Loki says, interrupting him from his tangent. “With a history like mine, one learns to be... cautious.”

The Grandmaster pauses, his eyes suddenly going soft. There’s open curiosity there but also a measure of... concern? “Sounds like you’ve got some stories to tell,” he replies quietly. “Well—ah!” He smiles as a woman enters the room and his long-fingered hands move quickly through the air as he speaks. Sign language, Loki realizes, though a different one than Asgardian sign. Is the servant deaf? “Selene! Will you please show my friend to his suite?”

The small, lavender-skinned woman nods and smiles before gently sliding her hand (each hand has six fingers, thumbs at both sides) into the crook of Loki’s elbow. Automatically Loki bends his arm and she leads him toward the lift.

Loki is bewildered still but he has enough of his faculties left to call over his shoulder toward the Grandmaster as the woman summons the lift. “Let me know when you’d like to play that game of checkers,” he says, layering his voice with a teasing lilt as he and Selene step into the lift. The last thing Loki hears before the doors close is the Grandmaster positively  _giggling._

Loki leans heavily against the elevator wall, lets out a breath. Selene looks at him from the corner of her eyes. Loki doesn’t have extra thumbs, but his Allspeak  _should_ allow Selene to understand him if he uses Asgardian sign. “Is he always so...”

She looks briefly shocked at his use of sign, then grins and nods. “He likes you,” she signs. “Congratulations."

“Congratulations or condolences?”  Loki gives a wry smile.

“Perhaps both? He can be... a lot,”  she says.

“I see.”   The lift is moving laterally now.   “Is this an unusual situation?” 

Selene shrugs. “Yes and no. He often selects people to join the audience rather than the ring, or offers them jobs around the tower. But rarely with such alacrity.”

“Offers them jobs? Is that how you got here?”

Selene nods. “My planet is gone, and so is his, so...” Her hands falter as the lift comes to a stop and the doors open. “Here we are! If you need anything, just call.”

“Thank you,”  Loki signs as he steps out of the elevator and looks around. The doors close and the lift hums as it moves away, leaving Loki by himself; he hardly notices.

The room is expansive and lavishly appointed, all plush fabrics in rich colors, dark glossy wood, gold gilt and fixtures. Loki’s lived as royalty, he knows luxury when he sees it, and this room is beyond luxurious, it’s ostentatiously, lavishly opulent; it’s trying too hard. Loki runs his fingers over the velvety bedspread, mind whirring as he tries to process all the information he’s absorbed over the past half hour.

The Grandmaster is the ruler of this planet. When people fall through the portal to this world, they are brought to him, and he decides what to do with them. Some, he forces to fight for his amusement. Others, he gives employment, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Capricious nature? No, one doesn’t become ruler of a world through caprice, unless...

Loki sits down on the bed, fingers still sliding repeatedly over the velvet as he thinks. The Grandmaster has magical ability that far surpasses Loki’s own. Could it be that his magic is  _so_  advanced that he can be as fickle, as changeable as he likes?

No. No, if the Grandmaster were truly mercurial, Sakaar would be in shambles, anarchy. As it is, the palace is organized, the staff content, the whole setup seems to work like a well-oiled machine; clearly there is reason and method to the Grandmaster’s madness, though Loki has yet to decipher it. So the Grandmaster is intelligent, powerful, and capable of reason, despite his obvious eccentricity. That’s good news; creatures that are capable of reason can be... well, reasoned with.

The next question is what the Grandmaster wants with Loki?

Well, Loki thinks, at least he can cross  _one_ thing off that list of possibilities. He bites back an almost hysterical bark of laughter, ending up with an awful wheezing giggle instead.

He supposes he can forgive himself the outburst. It’s been a  _bad_ two days. His world is dying, his brother is missing, he’s galaxies away from everything he’s ever known, and he hasn’t slept in at least 48 hours. He’s feeling numb, which he thinks is probably a good thing. But emotionally wiped out or not, exhaustion is beginning to set in and show its teeth now that he’s alone and in a quiet, safe place.

He uses the last of his energy to summon up his  _seiðr_ and place some alarms around the room to awaken him if they’re crossed. It’s not difficult magic, but he's so drained that even such basic enchantment seems to pull at the very marrow in his bones. Satisfied that he won’t be caught off-guard now, he pulls back the bedcovers and crawls underneath, curling his limbs up defensively, automatically. The sheets are smooth and soft, the covers pleasantly heavy, a comforting weight on his body. He closes his eyes and doesn't so much drift off as he does careen.

-

Loki snaps awake when his alarms are tripped, instantly at his feet with his hands defensively outstretched and magic crackling in his bones; glinting in little dancing sparks between his fingers and gathering in his palms for an attack.

Selene is standing there just outside the lift doorway; she gives a terrified squeak and the tray she’s carrying quivers in her shaking grip.

Loki instantly feels contrite, guilt roiling in his stomach. He may be a trickster, but pointlessly frightening the minds out of innocent servants isn’t a hobby of his, and the poor thing looks absolutely stricken, her eyes round and wide as she stares up at Loki.

“I’m so sorry,”   Loki signs, instantly relaxing and fizzling out his  _seiðr_ .   “I had set up alarms around the room, I’m sorry for reacting so—“ 

Selene takes a few steps and sets her tray down on a side table. Pastries and jam, a steaming pot of tea, some sort of sliced fruit? Breakfast, anyhow. Loki winces. The girl was bringing him what looks like a delicious meal and he almost eviscerated her for it.

“It's all right, I understand,”   she signs after she compulsively smooths back her short hair a few times, obviously a self-soothing thing.   “I was jumpy the first day I was here, too.” 

“There’s jumpy and then there’s homicidal,”   Loki signs.   “Truly, forgive me, miss.” 

She laughs. “You aren’t homicidal, you’re just... cautious,” she replies.

 _If only you knew,_  Loki thinks blankly.

“The Grandmaster would like to see you this evening,”  she continues, then moves to pour out a cup of tea. Loki steps over toward her.

“This is more food than I can eat,”   Loki signs,   “please, would you share with me?” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,”  she signs.

“It seems a shame to waste this bounty, please, keep me company for a few moments,”  Loki pleads, laying on his finest charm. He has an ulterior motive, of course, he needs to gain as much information from her as he can. The more knowledge he has, the better.

“Truly, sir, I’ve already eaten breakfast, and I have much work to attend to.”   She smiles apologetically.   “You’re of course welcome to go wherever you wish. I don’t recommend leaving the tower, however, Sakaar can be... rough, for newcomers.” 

“Noted. Thank you.”

“And again, Grandmaster wishes to see you at your leisure sometime this evening. Just ask the lift to bring you to his chamber, and it will.”   She smooths out her trousers and shirt.   “Will that be all, sir?” 

Loki nods. “Yes. Thank you, miss.”

“Selene.”

“Then you must call me Loki,”  Loki signs. His name-sign is an L hand-shape held near his head to signify one of his helmet's horns.

The friendliness is calculated. The more Selene likes him, the more willing she will be to tell him things. He gets the feeling that she has a lot of knowledge about how this palace runs; the more she can share with Loki, the better. And, honestly, she's a kind girl, a tiny bastion of sanity and normalcy. Being nice to her isn't a terrible imposition.

"Very well, Loki." And with that Selene smiles, exposing sharp, gleaming little teeth, before turning neatly and heading back into the lift.

Loki settles down on the nearby divan, plucks some kind of filled pastry and the cup of tea off the breakfast tray and starts eating. It’s delicious, and Loki stares into space as he chews, thinking. He needs to explore this tower, talk to some of the residents, find his footing. At the very least, he doesn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. The Grandmaster wants him for something.  _He gives us jobs,_ Selene had said. What sort of job is Loki to be assigned?

Something involving his magic ability, he supposes. That is the thing that had grabbed the Grandmaster’s attention, after all. But magic is a very large category with very broad applications, and Loki hasn’t the faintest idea what such a powerful creature could want him for.

He finishes his pastry and tea and stands up. He closes his eyes, fishes around briefly in his pocket dimension for his black suit. It’s not flashy, he’ll have to get something that better fits Sakaarian style, but for now it’s what he has. It folds itself over Loki’s arm and he sets the suit over the bed; he pokes around for the bathroom, finding it through a door just beyond his dresser.

The bathing facilities are just as spectacular as the rest of the suite. Loki isn’t sure so many jets in a single bathtub are strictly necessary, but he isn’t going to complain, either.

-

The palace, the tower, is more like a small city in itself than a castle. There are shops, clubs, lounges, apartments, restaurants, and of course the colosseum. It is lively and rather civilized, all things considered. The civilization of the palace lives right alongside the barbarism of the arena; it’s a wild juxtaposition and makes Loki wonder at the sheer cognitive dissonance in the Grandmaster's head.

He's found himself new clothes; rich blue leather, gold trim. The colors the Grandmaster seems to favor; the choice isn't an accident. That had been the first item on his agenda; now he was exploring, committing the layout of this tower to memory, learning its shortcuts and paths and taking time to make pleasant small talk with whoever looks the slightest bit influential.

-

"Well, he definitely knows how to throw a party," says the woman behind the counter at the jewelry shop.

"He brought my friend's cousin's daughter back from the brink of death with just a touch!" loudly insists a man on his third tall, bubbling drink that Loki's seen.

A whisper from a small person after looking both ways and leaning in close to Loki. "They say he's a witch."

"He's cruel as a snake," says a woman that Loki talks to for at least an hour, "and a thousand times more sly."

-

It's perhaps nine PM and the sun is finally setting, casting the lounge Loki's settled into in an orange-gold glow. He's just finished a meal and he's walked through maybe a solid fourth of the tower today; not as much as he would have liked, but it's truly an enormous place.

It's firmly evening now. Loki rises from his comfortable armchair, bids good night to his conversation partners, and moves toward the nearest elevator.

He steps inside and the doors close smoothly; he reaches out and touches the same panel that he'd seen Selene use. A soft chime sounds. "Ah," Loki says, remembering that Selene had said just to tell the lift where he wished to go, "take me to the Grandmaster."

The elevator chimes softly again and whirs to life. It feels like an interminable amount of time before the doors finally open again and Loki steps out into a room just as outrageously luxuriant as his own, but probably more colorful.

"Hey! Loki!"

Loki's eyes snap over to the source of the voice. The Grandmaster is there, settled on an absurdly plush armchair with his limbs indolently sprawled, bathed in golden light from the windows. He smiles beatifically when Loki makes eye contact with him, his whole being seeming to radiate delight at the sight of him.

It's inexplicable. It's  _endearing_.

Loki feels like a mouse charmed by a snake.

The man organizes his long limbs enough to rise to his feet; he holds out a hand to Loki, palm-up. "How have you found the palace? Was your suite, ah, was it adequate? Did you have everything you needed?"

Loki steps forward and takes the Grandmaster's hand on instinct. It's warm—warmer than human or even Asgardian body temperature. He doesn't have time to think on it before the Grandmaster is lightly directing him to settle in the chair across from the one he himself had been sitting in. "It was far beyond adequate, Grandmaster," he says, and the Grandmaster grins again. "Selene was also very accommodating."

"Oh, yeah, isn't she just a, a doll? Had to learn her people's language, they're all deaf, or they were before they—anyway, absolutely worth it, to learn the, uh, language—she keeps the hospitality staff in order, I've got, ah—no idea what I'd do without her." The Grandmaster sits back down in his chair, finally lets go of Loki's hand.

Loki finds himself missing the warmth.

"So have you had a good day? I see you've got some new, new threads," the Grandmaster prompts.

"Yes, I did. Do you like them?" Loki's lips curve into a carefully curated demure smile.

"Of course, you look marvelous."

"To answer your question, yes, I had a lovely day simply wandering the palace."

"Palace! Now that's a nice word!" The Grandmaster gives a little huff of laughter, genuinely amused. "I'm glad you had a nice time around the, uh,  _palace_. Plenty of interesting, unusual types living around here, that's, that's for sure." He hardly pauses before he's going off on another train of thought. "Now you're probably wondering, hey, hey now, what's with this weird guy, ruler of the planet and all, great dress sense though—and why did he ask me to swing by tonight, huh? Well," he continues, again not giving Loki a chance to respond as he leans forward and grabs something from underneath the coffee table between their chairs. "I'd like to play a game with you."

"What sort of—" Loki bites off his words when he sees the item that the Grandmaster retrieves; a glossy glass and metal chess board. "A literal game," he says, unable to hide the little laugh in his tone.

"Yes, of course, a literal—don't tell me that your mind went to another, another one of those terrible, uh,  _depraved_  places!" The Grandmaster looks amused this time, though, rather than horrified. Loki watches as he moves his hand in a delicate gesture, wrist twisting and long fingers curling in the air; the chess pieces, also glass, half of them frosted, move on their own and gently clack onto their places on the board, guided without a single touch. Telekinesis, then, Loki thinks. "You've got chess on Asgard, right? You know how to play?"

Loki nods. "Yes, I learned when I was very young."

"Excellent! So what set of rules do you know? Asgardian standard or alternate, Kree complex, standard Earth—" he pauses, "uh, whaddya call it, Midgard standard rules, Xandar—"

"I know Asgard and Midgard standard rules," Loki says, "but I can learn others within moments."

The Grandmaster's eyes positively glitter; he claps his hands, rubs them together. "Ooh, can you, now? Mm, that's good to know, but how about good old Asgard standard for this first game, nice and familiar for you. What color do you want?"

"Black," Loki says. The Grandmaster hums quietly and moves one of his pawns. Loki eyes the board and moves a knight.

Another move, which Loki follows. "Grandmaster, I must ask a question."

Another click of a piece against the board. "Shoot."

"Why this?"

"Why the game?" The Grandmaster rests his chin on his palm. "I don't wanna make you anxious. Pretty sure the answer's gonna make you anxious," he says, mouth twisting as he thinks.

A little shock of fear hits Loki's spine. "I can take it," he says, "but also, Grandmaster, just telling me that the answer will make me anxious makes me anxious."

The Grandmaster groans. "Yeah, gotcha, shoulda thought of that, probably, huh? Mm, okay, well." He pauses and moves another piece closer to Loki's bishop. "If you've absolutely, definitely got to know, it's an, uh. It's a test."

Loki captures one of the Grandmaster's rooks. "And how will I know whether I've passed?"

"You'll know. And maybe, maybe 'test' is the wrong word. Maybe, ah—an evaluation?"

“You’re right, that is cause for nervousness.”

“No, no, c’mon, relax, this is a game, it’s supposed to be fun!” He chuckles and captures one of Loki’s pawns.

What are the consequences for failing this evaluation? Loki swallows reflexively, fights back a wave of tension. He shouldn't ask, no, the Grandmaster told him to relax and have fun; indicating tension might displease him. Displeasing him, he thinks, would not be to Loki's advantage.

“So tell me a little about yourself, Loki. You’re from Asgard but that’s about all I know and to be fair I haven’t been around the nine realms in—" he huffs out a breath, thinking. “Oh, wow, a  _lotta years,_  actually.”

Loki decides not to ask how many years exactly. “I’m Odin’s second son,” he says, “his third child altogether.”

“Yeah, I got that from your last name, Odin’s son, Odinson, kinda self-explanatory, but doesn't tell me much. This Odin is... who, exactly? He a big deal?”

Loki struggles to keep a straight face. “Oh, somewhat, I suppose...” So it truly has been many years since the Grandmaster has been near the nine realms, if he doesn’t know who Odin is. “He was Asgard’s king.”

“You’re a  _prince!”_  The Grandmaster almost crows, a delighted look on his face. “Oh,  _wow!_ You’re—now that’s amazing, what’s a prince of Asgard doing on my little planet?”

As they play, Loki gives him the overview; he carefully leaves out certain things, like how he stole Odin’s form and took over as king, how Hela is his secret sister and a relic of Asgard’s violent past, how Loki left his father to die on Midgard. He leaves out Thor.

Some things are too painful to talk about. Some things Loki can keep for his own.

“So—let me get this right here—Asgard’s gone down the shitter, is what you’re telling me,” the Grandmaster says. “This lady—lady of death, was it?—is just, wrecking things, laying waste to it all, so you fought her? And she—uhh, she shoved you off of some magic sparkly bridge—“

“Rainbow bridge,” Loki corrects, “the Bifrost.”

“The bi bridge, yes, right, there you go,” the Grandmaster says, “and you, you fell through a portal, and just fell right onto Sakaar.”

“Yes. That’s the long and the short of it. So now,” Loki spreads his arms wide, “I’m homeless.” There’s a sort of dark humor in it.

The Grandmaster pauses for a long moment to consider his next move, finally sliding a bishop over toward Loki’s king. “Jeez, you’re a hobo,” he says.

Loki moves a knight. “Check,” he says, then, teasingly, “and that’s  _Prince Hobo,_  to you.”

The Grandmaster actually laughs, this weird little chortle, like the laugh itself catches him off-guard. “Hah! Prince Hobo it is, th—“ He pauses, the smile melting off his face as he stares at the board. “Wait, did you say ‘check’?” He blinks a few times, leans closer.

“Yes, I did,” Loki says, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not in check?”

“Uh—“ His shocked features rearrange themselves back into careful neutrality. “Yeah, guess I am. Okay. Cool. Right.” He coughs lightly and moves, placing his king firmly out of danger.

Loki eyes the pieces, tries to work out how to get his advantage back. There’s a solid thirty seconds of silence before the Grandmaster speaks again. “So, uh, what—what makes a bridge bi, anyway?”

“Obviously when it is attracted to other bridges as well as roads or buildings,” Loki replies, not looking up from the board, “this is basic knowledge, Grandmaster.” He moves another pawn.

“Well, I for one think it’s nice that the big old magic bridge is, uh. Bisexual. That’s good knowledge.”

Loki watches the Grandmaster move his other rook. He plays aggressively, like every piece is a queen. “So what about you, Grandmaster?”

“Oh, I’m bi, too, that’s why I think it’s so nice, about that, about that bridge of yours.”

Loki’s mouth curves into a grin and he manages not to let out an undignified giggle somehow. “I meant, you now know how I arrived on Sakaar. You know my background. What about yours?”

The Grandmaster's voice takes on a tone that's almost melancholy, almost solemn. "Oh, my dear prince," he purrs, "my history would take far too long to tell."

"I have all night."

"I don't think, I don't, don't think you quite understand," the Grandmaster says, a little smile quirking his lips. "See, I was born when the stars were young."

"Which stars?"

The smile turns wolfish; the man tilts his head and fixes Loki with a look that makes him shiver. The Grandmaster speaks without anger or iciness but with no shred of levity, no sense of humor whatsoever.

_"All of them."_

Loki doesn't have a chance to respond before the Grandmaster is moving another chess piece and speaking again, the sober honesty gone and replaced once more with playfulness. "Check! Good luck getting out of this one, you scamp!"

Loki shakes himself and looks back at the chess board. He's screwed, he thinks blankly. The Grandmaster's got him in an elegant little trap; he has a few different options so far as moving, and if he were playing with a worse player, or playing Midgard rules, he might be able to still win—but he just knows that the Grandmaster has him now. He grits his teeth and chooses the least bad option, moving his king.

"And checkmate!" The Grandmaster knocks down Loki's king and Loki's blood runs cold. He'd almost forgotten that this had been a test. And he just failed.

"Grandmaster," he says, fear clawing up his throat, "I—"

But the Grandmaster is leaping to his feet, kicking aside the coffee table, grasping Loki's hands and pulling him up as well, laughing and gripping Loki's hands so hard it almost hurts; Loki can feel him trembling in his excitement. "I was right! I was right about you! I knew it!"

"But I—" Loki is bewildered, he searches the Grandmaster's face, "I lost!"

"You lost, yes, but you—you—it doesn't matter that you lost!" The Grandmaster's eyes are shining; his hands move to cup Loki's jaw, tenderly, he looks at him like he's glowing from the inside out, something strange and wonderful. "You made me—made me work for it, Loki! You made me have to think, you posed a challenge!" He gives a little hiccuping laugh. "Do you realize how long it's been since—how long, how  _long_  I've—"

 _I was born when the stars were young_.

"About fourteen billion years?" Loki asks, a little deliriously. The Grandmaster just laughs again, nods, and Loki is struck with just how old this creature is, how very brilliant and how very alone.

The Grandmaster's thumbs stroke Loki's cheeks; Loki's own hands move up to lay over the Grandmaster's, and the Grandmaster is looking at him like he's something precious, something valuable beyond measure, like he's a  _necessity_ ; he's touching him like if he lets go Loki will melt away, like he'll be lost forever, he's touching him like that thought is unbearable.

Loki feels split open; this unspeakably ancient, powerful,  _beautiful_  creature wants him, needs him. It's intoxicating. For a split second he thinks the Grandmaster is going to kiss him, and he thinks that he wouldn't mind—but then the man is pulling away and Loki feels the loss acutely.

Longing flames to life in his chest, threatens to burn him down; he had  _wanted_  the Grandmaster to kiss him.

Fuck, he still wants it.

He swallows heavily, struggles to keep his voice even. "Well, I'm glad I passed the evaluation."

"Do you—do you want to play again?" the Grandmaster asks, hope flaring in his eyes. "Or, it's, it's late, maybe you'd like to go back to your suite, I'm not gonna force you to—just sit and play for hours and hours, I mean—but if you want to, I—"

Impulsively, Loki reaches out and takes the Grandmaster's hand again. "I'd love to play again," he says firmly. The Grandmaster grins and positively wiggles in a way that reminds Loki of an excited hound.

"Okay! Okay, let's play! Let's play!"

-

Five games go by, and five games Loki is thoroughly destroyed. He had relaxed for those games, now that he had nothing to prove; he put effort into studying the Grandmaster's playing style, trying to learn to predict his moves.

He's had no luck so far, and he's starting to get frustrated, but the Grandmaster is still radiating absolute joy.

"You're getting even better!" the Grandmaster praises. "You'll get me one of these days. Maybe," he adds, teasing. Loki growls softly, moves to reset the pieces again. The Grandmaster reaches out and touches Loki's wrist. "Nah-ah. Look outside for me real quick."

Loki's eyes flick to the massive windows; he squints, disbelieving, then groans as he sees light just starting to slip over the horizon. "Ugh. Is that the  _sun?"_

"Yeah," the Grandmaster hums dreamily. He stands up and walks over to the windows, looking out over the landscape. Loki follows.

"It's almost pretty like this," Loki says quietly.

"Almost," the Grandmaster agrees. "Y'know, Loki, you were wrong."

"Hm?"

The Grandmaster turns around and gently herds Loki toward the lift with a hand at the small of his back. The lift doors open without the Grandmaster saying a word. "You're not homeless."

Loki steps into the lift, turns around to face him. "I suppose I'm not," he replies quietly.

The Grandmaster smiles, the lift door shuts, and Loki is taken to his room without a word. The space at the small of his back where the Grandmaster’s wide hand had been still feels warm.

He dreams of laughing eyes and lips pressing blue kisses to his skin.

-

Loki supposes that Sakaar isn't the worst place to be—and since he has nowhere else to go lined up, he might as well stick around. On what other world will he be so comfortable, in the lap of luxury, fawned over and appreciated, and all with absolutely no effort on his part at all? He's firmly in the good graces of the planet's leader—a man who happens to be an elder of the damned universe, obscenely powerful not to mention  _unkillable_ —so Loki's rather a protected class, it seems.

At this point, he'd be a fool to leave.

The Grandmaster asks to see him again the next night, and the next. "Some people think you're a witch," Loki says over the chess board (and also over dinner).

"A witch! Well, haven't heard that one. I guess it's not that far off, though. Check."

"I've been called witch too, many times," Loki says. "Though with disdain rather than awe."

The Grandmaster’s eyes narrow. "You're joking."

"Unfortunately not. Asgardian warriors tend to view my... skills... as  _lesser_."

"Shortsighted fools," the Grandmaster grumbles. "Oh, and checkmate."

-

He’s invited up to the Grandmaster’s box to view the day’s battles. Loki watches politely, but doesn’t particularly enjoy it. The sport is barbaric and bloody, though the Grandmaster tends to put a stop to the matches and declare a winner before someone ends up dead.  _Usually._  

 _If every match resulted in death I'd run out of champions!_  the Grandmaster had said by way of explanation.  _I'd go through Sakaar's whole population!_

“So whaddya think?” the man asks after the third or so battle, nudging Loki’s knee with his own; they’re settled side by side on the Grandmaster’s white sofa.

“I... can’t honestly say it’s my game of choice,” Loki says delicately.

The Grandmaster gives a deliberately dramatic gasp. “Oh, Loki, no! There’s so many, so many layers to it all, figuring out the, the odds, who’s more likely to win, based on—it’s based on so many factors, predicting the outcome is half the fun!” The Grandmaster launches into a babbling dissertation on the game's nuances; he explains things Loki had never really considered or been interested in, but he's so animated and excited and pleased to be telling someone all about this thing he loves that Loki is charmed anyway.

He might feel fairly indifferent about the actual battles, but he rather likes being shown around by the Grandmaster, introduced as his “good friend,” and sitting so close he can feel the Grandmaster’s body heat.

-

It's sometime in their second week of nightly games (and dinners, and incredibly good conversations) that Loki decides to cheat.

He's lost every single game so far and it's killing him. He  _hates_  not being the best, and the Grandmaster is thoroughly better than him at this. Cheating, though, isn't that part of a game, sometimes?

"—and that's how my brother almost had an aneurysm over a rare coin," the Grandmaster laughs.

"Mm, he sounds a bit high-strung when it comes to pretty, rare things," Loki says. "Is he jealous that you have Selene?" With any luck, that'll get the Grandmaster talking again, carried away in explanation, and Loki will be able to use that distraction.

He takes the bait. "Heavens, yes! She's the last of her kind, y'know, so of course Taneleer wanted her!" As he talks, Loki hums and nods at the appropriate times, all the while carefully and wordlessly casting a glamour over the black chess pieces—Loki's pieces. "See," the Grandmaster continues, "the best part is he actually showed up here on Sakaar and offered her a job at his warehouse on Knowhere, halfway across the damn universe, right? Offers to pay her three times whatever I am, for less work! And she says—she says, oh, how'd she put it—that she'd rather be eaten by wild animals than displayed in some showroom." He laughs again. "Oh, you should have seen Taneleer's face. And then she goes and says that I treat her well and she's very happy. And Taneleer looks even  _more_  like he'd just tasted something bitter. It was  _great_."

The glamour is just barely finished when the Grandmaster stops speaking. It's a complex little spell; glamours target the mind, make a person see things that aren't real at the mental level. In this case, the glamour is adaptive in real-time—honestly, a brilliant bit of spell work, in Loki's opinion—and the Grandmaster  _should_ see Loki make whatever moves that he  _thinks_  will make him lose.

The Grandmaster dismantled his  _seiðr_  once before, it's true, and Loki is nervous that he might see through this one too—but the last time had been a true shape shift, which doesn't require mind trickery at all; and even then, perhaps the Grandmaster had  _seen_  Loki shift instead of sensing it. Either way, Loki has high hopes that attacking the Grandmaster's mind will prove effective.

"I'm sure it was wonderful to see," Loki says, "and I must say I'm glad Selene didn't take him up on his offer. Shall we play?"

The Grandmaster nods and moves his first piece, continues babbling on about his brother and his haphazard collection of items. "There's not even a cohesive theme to the stuff he collects! It's just  _stuff_."

Loki moves a piece. It doesn't matter which one, so he just moves a pawn. The Grandmaster doesn't react and just keeps talking. Either the glamour is working, or it isn't touching him at all and he doesn't even notice it's there. The only way to find out is to keep playing. The Grandmaster moves one of his pieces.

"I suppose we all have to have our hobbies," Loki says lightly. "Though I'm glad Selene didn't take your brother up on his offer."

"Oh, me too, me too, she runs this place," the Grandmaster gushes, "everyone loves her, such a sweetheart—"

They play on, Loki keeping up what he hopes is suitably distracting conversation. The game goes by shockingly fast, the Grandmaster appearing more and more uneasy as it goes on. Triumph grows in Loki's skull—the Grandmaster is seeing Loki capture more and more of his pieces. The glamour is  _working_  and Loki is feeling beyond smug.

His  _seiðr_  alarms him when he's got the Grandmaster cornered. "Check," he says with a grin, moving another piece randomly.

"Oh. Well. Aren't I in a pickle," the Grandmaster mumbles, leaning forward and poring over the board for a long moment.

"Have I improved, then?" Loki prompts, unable to resist a little bravado.

The Grandmaster hums, brow furrowed; he moves his king. Loki moves another piece, of course it doesn't matter which one, because the Grandmaster will see whatever he thinks will beat him. "Checkma—"

"Ah," the Grandmaster says, "not so fast." He raises a hand, snaps his fingers; the board shimmers and Loki feels like ice water is poured down his spinal column as he feels his  _seiðr_  torn apart and destroyed.

"Shit," Loki murmurs.

"Cheating's no fun, my dear prince," the Grandmaster purrs, "did you really think it'd work? More importantly, did you really think I've never seen a trick like that before?"

Loki's jaw works soundlessly for a second before it shuts. The Grandmaster had known from the start what Loki was doing, had let him think it all the way until the last minute just to make a point, the  _bastard_. "Your point has been made," he snaps and resets the board.

"Like, it was good magic! Not some cheap party trick, it was really artful, not just anybody can pull something like that off, but I've seen a lot of magic, been around the block a few times, seen a lot of—"

"Again," Loki interrupts him when the pieces are back in place. "Play me again."

"All you had to do was ask," the Grandmaster hums sweetly, and they begin once more.

-

The thing is that Loki is still pretty sure he can't win based on his skill alone. He's  _good,_ he's very good, and he knows it—but he's not as good as the Grandmaster. Unfortunately, he can't outright cheat with  _seiðr_ , because the Grandmaster can sense it, and there isn't a more manual way to actually cheat the game. If he can't cheat and make  _himself_ better at the game, he'll have to somehow make the Grandmaster  _worse._

-

Loki  _knows_ he looks good; he's been shopping specifically for tonight's game, and he's honestly outdone himself.

His normal leather, armored clothing is gone and replaced with something softer, more closely fitted; a thin, gauzy robin's-egg blue  robe that clings to his slim form and pools delicately at his ankles, a dark jewel-toned tunic beneath. His hair is unstyled, unsmoothed; it curls loosely about his shoulders in a way that he hopes projects an enticing softness, vulnerability.

"What do you think?" he asks Selene when she arrives with his late lunch that afternoon.

Her jaw drops. "For the love of the Goddesses and all their friends above," she signs after she sets down the tray, eyes wide. "Are you trying to kill someone?"

"I'm trying to win a game of chess," he replies, "through cheap distraction and trickery."

She laughs until she doubles over and has to sit down.

Loki grins. Her laughter is infectious. "So do you suppose I have a shot?"

"Yeah, I'd say so!" She finally pulls herself together and looks him over more. "It's missing something," she signs, then gives a quick quadruple snap of her fingers—two snaps on each hand, because she has two thumbs on each—before she signs "I've got the perfect thing. It's a gift I got that I've never worn. I'll be right back. Stay put!"

The small woman is gone within a heartbeat and returns within ten minutes, by which time Loki's started in on lunch.

"Don't damage it, because I want it back, I'm going to regift it to my girlfriend this solstice," she warns, "but here." She pulls a sparkling necklace from her pocket; a slim, dark ribbon choker, small jeweled chains hanging from it in neat rows.

"Thank you," Loki signs, taking it and admiring it before he fastens it about his neck. "Where did you get it?"

"A man gave it to me because he wanted me to work for him," she signs. "There you go. Now you're perfect." She winks and moves back toward the lift. "Remember, if you break it, I'll make you replace it!"

-

"Oh. Wow," the Grandmaster says when he sees Loki that evening, his eyes drawing up and down his body with absolutely no shame.

That's a good sign. Loki gives a pleased hum and settles down in the chair across from the Grandmaster's, where he's sat every night for the past...how many nights has it been? A lot. "Shall we play?" he asks, layering his voice with a low, slightly lazy quality.

"By all means," the Grandmaster says, as if snapped back to reality; with a quick motion the chess board is on the table and set up, and the man  _still_  can't take his eyes off Loki.

"I went shopping today," Loki says, smoothing the robe over his legs. "How was your day?"

"Uh," he replies, "y-y'know, couple of diplomatic meetings, some, some housekeeping, talks with staff..." He trails off, moves a pawn without even looking at it.

"Mm. Sounds dreadful." Loki mirrors the Grandmaster's move. "But now you can have some fun with me."

"The highlight of my days, recently." The Grandmaster slides a bishop across the board.

"Will you want to unwind for longer than one or two games tonight?" He leans forward when he moved his own piece but doesn't lean back when he's done. "Because your day was so boring."

"How many games were you thinking?"

"As many as you want." Then, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue, letting his own eyes dart briefly to the Grandmaster's mouth, "I can go all night."

The Grandmaster's bright eyes meet Loki's own; they seem to darken, a smirk plays over his paint-streaked lips.  _Smudge it_ , a traitorous voice in the back of Loki's head says,  _smudge it, get it everywhere, get it on your lips, on his throat, wreck him, taste his pulse on your tongue; leave blue stains and drink him in._

_Oh, fuck. You're supposed to be seducing **him,** not the other way around. Keep it together, Odinson._

"Mm," the Grandmaster says slowly, "can you, now?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

The Grandmaster moves another piece without breaking eye contact with Loki; he takes one of his pawns and sets it aside. "I think I'd like to," he says.

 _Good_.

The next few moves are made in silence, electricity seeming to burn in the air between them. When the Grandmaster takes just a little too long to look at the board and not at Loki, Loki aims what he hopes is the final strike. "Mm. Warm in here tonight," he sighs, and opens his robe. It falls from his shoulders, revealing his thin, deep blue tunic, its low neckline baring his collarbones; the robe drops into Loki's chair and his arms are free of it as well. The dark tunic is a bright contrast with his skin; he sighs and rolls his shoulders luxuriously. "Oh, much better."

He can  _hear_  the Grandmaster's breath catch in his throat, and he blinks slowly before looking up at the Grandmaster through dark lashes. The man is rapt, seemingly entranced. He  _wants_  Loki; Loki can feel it.

"I'm glad you're...comfortable," he says, and then he moves his queen. "Checkmate," he purrs out, and Loki's sweet, flirtatious manner shatters.

"Damn it," he swears, and the Grandmaster is  _laughing at him_.

"You're very pretty, but I  _really_  like chess," the Grandmaster says, and he's smirking indolently, his eyes still dark but dancing now, sparkling, and all Loki wants to do is kiss that smug look off his face, make him whine, make him beg. Better Judgement says that's not a good idea; it would be stupid to throw himself at this man, it's beyond inconvenient to be attracted to him because no matter how handsome and intelligent and charismatic he is, he's ultimately dangerous, a wild card.

Within a split second, Impulsivity throws Better Judgement out of the room.

"Damn you." A growl rises in Loki's chest and he launches out of his chair, over the table between them (chess pieces scatter across the room) and he's in the Grandmaster's lap, straddling him; the Grandmaster's hands fly to Loki's waist, probably in surprise, and to his credit he  _does_ look shocked and Loki feels triumphant that he's finally managed to catch him off-guard before he dips down and kisses him.

The Grandmaster reacts viscerally, a live wire beneath Loki; he kisses back without hesitation, lips and tongue meeting Loki's; he tastes like burnt sugar and whatever fruit lies on the table beside the chess board; he tastes like  _magic_ , plasma-hot and pounding in his blood, sparking bright on Loki's tongue. It's addictively, achingly good, and Loki thinks he could kiss him for hours, just like this, in his lap as close as he can get.

And then as quickly as it starts it's over, the Grandmaster gently but firmly pushing Loki away, a horrified, hunted look in his eyes now. "No, Loki," he says, "no, no, you don't—no. I'm sorry. Play again tomorrow, yeah?"

Loki almost screams. He opens his mouth to ask why, to ask the Grandmaster to kiss him again, but he doesn't have a chance. The Grandmaster is curling his fingers through the air before Loki can speak, and Loki is instantly back in his own suite, sitting on his bed, painfully alone.

He sits silently for a few seconds, thoughts fast and disjointed. His fingers move up to touch his own lips, chasing the ghost of the Grandmaster's touch. When he pulls them away, he finds them stained blue.

Loki's plan has thoroughly backfired; all it ended up doing was make him want the Grandmaster even more. And, most puzzlingly, the man clearly wants him but sent him away.

Sent him away because...?

Loki groans and rubs his hands over his face. It wasn't that the Grandmaster didn't want him—he kissed back like a man drowning. It was incomprehensible.

All Loki knows he needs more of that burnt-sugar taste, the Grandmaster's body thrumming with barely restrained magic beneath him; he needs it so badly he can barely breathe with it.

Oh, it's beyond inconvenient, yes, but at this point, Loki doesn't give a damn.

-

"Ah! Loki!" The Grandmaster positively lights up at the sight of him; he reaches out and takes Loki's hand, pulls him onto the couch close beside him. "I'm so glad you decided to join us today! We've got some great stuff lined up!" The Grandmaster chatters on and on about the day's contenders. Loki doesn't really care, still—but he rather likes to hear the Grandmaster enthuse.

( _You just like to hear his voice? That's dangerous_ , a voice in Loki's head warns,  _more dangerous than merely wanting him. Watch out, Odinson_.)

It's also somewhat of a relief to see that he's acting as if nothing particularly odd happened last night at all. Loki makes appropriate noises whenever the Grandmaster says something that requires a response; he sits back and enjoys the man's company and the warmth he throws off like a furnace.

-

Loki's managed to convince Selene into staying with him for breakfast, finally.

"Did your plan work? Did you beat him?" she asks, signing mostly one-handed as she chews, her pastry in her other hand.

"No. Regrettably, my plan to seduce him into distraction failed miserably," Loki signs, quickly and sharply to denote a grumbly tone.

Her nose scrunches up and she makes a wordless gesture that roughly translates to "ugh." "And you looked so nice," she signs. "Well, I guess you're going to have to beat him with skill alone."

"Right," Loki signs, rolling his eyes. "And the Grandmaster will decide that flower arranging, rather than gladiatorial battles, is his new passion."

She finishes off her pastry and pauses before her eyes widen and she gives a quad-snap of her fingers. "How about you play me? I'm no Grandmaster, but I'm not bad."

"Do you know Asgardian rules?"

She shakes her head. "Xandarian classic," she signs with an apologetic look. "I can teach you? Maybe learning some new rules will help you think about the game a new way?"

"That would be lovely," Loki signs, pulls a chess board out of his pocket dimension and lays it on the coffee table, the pieces in place.

"Okay, first of all, the rooks and knights change places! And the queen can teleport within three spaces of her, but only if..."

She lays out the rules quickly and they're far more complex than standard Asgardian, but Loki thinks he has them down. "So to be clear, knights can switch places with the opponent's knight?" he asks, after she's done explaining.

"Only once per game. And only if the bishops are out of play."

"Right. Well. I think I've got it."

Selene rubs her hands together excitedly. "All right! Let's play!"

Within moments Loki loses half his pawns to a 'poisoning' that apparently bishops can inflict if they win a die roll. Loki's never played chess with _dice_ before, it seems to defeat the purpose of strategy to bring in an element of luck, but Selene seems happy, and Loki's pretty sure he owes her a game after almost killing her on his first morning here.

"So how's the Grandmaster?" Selene asks as Loki moves one of his remaining pawns.

"How is he? He—he seems fine," Loki signs. "Why do you ask?"

Selene moves her rook (it can teleport too, apparently) before she replies. "It's just that he hasn't... Recently he hasn't..." Her hands trail off awkwardly.

"What," Loki asks, feeling a storm coming on.

"See, the Grandmaster usually throws these... parties," she signs. "On one of his ships.  _Special_  parties," she emphasizes. " _Interesting_  parties." This time she uses a different sign for 'party,' this one indicating a level of debauchery.

Loki blinks. "Have you ever been to one of these parties?"

"Oh, no!" She shakes her head forcibly. "I have a girlfriend! We're exclusive!"

So they're  _that_  kind of  _special and interesting party_.  "I understand," Loki signs, "so he often throws parties." He uses the 'debauched party' version of the sign too, signs it slowly to indicate that he gets it. This revelation isn't exactly a revelation; he's heard rumors to that effect already.

"Yes. But my party planner, he says the Grandmaster hasn't attended any recently. So is he...okay?"

Loki blinks, slowly moves another piece. "Yes," he says, "he's... fine. He seems fine. He seems happy."

"Good, good," she signs and captures one of Loki's other pawns.

"Say," Loki signs. "How long, exactly, has it been since he's attended one of those... parties?"

Selene's eyes narrow, a soundless  _hmmm;_ she does a few quad-snaps as she thinks before she signs "Right. It was—" She pauses. "A little before you arrived. I remember because I had to get a whole crew in to clean up the Commodore."

"The Commodore?"

"The Grandmaster's party ship of choice. It was a  _disaster."  _She watches Loki move one of his rooks.

"Check," Loki signs.

"Oh, shit," Selene replies.

-

So the Grandmaster hasn't been attending any Interesting Parties since Loki's arrived, which honestly puzzles Loki even further. It must mean that the man only has eyes for Loki, that nobody else is interesting to him anymore.

So why did he send him away? Why hasn't he kissed him since that night? That's the question that circles through Loki's brain that night while they play.

The Grandmaster is relaxed, long legs sprawled out on display, his blue-painted lips curved into a handsome, appealing smile. Loki wonders how his hands would look, porcelain-pale and running up the tanned skin of the man's chest. Ever since their kiss, he can sense that sweet, burnt-sugar scent on the air whenever the Grandmaster is near, can feel the ancient magic crackling just under the surface. Now that he's tasted it, he can sense it so strongly; he craves it.

 _Stars._ Loki hasn't been this desperate for a person's touch in decades. Centuries, maybe. He had forgotten how  _awful_ it is.

"So are the rumors correct?" Loki asks after the Grandmaster beats him at the first game of the evening.

"Probably," the Grandmaster says, then grins mischievously. "But, uh, which ones are you talking about?"

"The ones about the wild gatherings you throw aboard one of your sportier ships."

"Wild gathering—" the Grandmaster laughs. "You can say 'orgy,' you know." Loki's nose wrinkles and the Grandmaster just laughs harder.

"It's just such a vulgar word," Loki grumbles.

"Well, vul—vulgar or not, yes, I do have someone to organize  _wild gatherings,_ " the Grandmaster says, imitating Loki's accent on the last two words. "It's good for morale. Lots of fun. Great exercise," he adds.

Loki resets the board then sits back in his chair. "I hear the party-goers have been missing your presence recently."

The Grandmaster looks at him sideways for a moment. "Well," he says, slowly, "something more interesting has been taking up my evenings."

Loki feels something warm up in his skull.

"The Commodore will always be there," the Grandmaster continues as he moves his first pawn. "I don't know how long you'll be. So I would be a fool to squander this—this precious, this precious...” he sighs, “time."

Shock flares through Loki; he opens his mouth to speak, but words don't come. He doesn't like being caught off guard.

 _He'd let me leave,_ Loki thinks blankly,  _he'd just let me go. He has the power to keep me here, and he doesn't want me to leave, but he would anyway._

"I suppose that's fair," Loki murmurs, finally gathering the faculties to move his first piece.

"I said, I  _really_ like chess," the Grandmaster says with a slow, fluttery,  _weird_  couple of blinks.

"Is that—are you trying to  _wink_ at me?"

"One of the things I never got the hang of, believe it or not," the Grandmaster gives a lopsided grin, "teleportation, telekinesis, matter manipulation, boom, no problem, but winking? Pfh, nope, can't do it, beyond me."

"Oh, it's not that hard, you just..." Loki winks.

"Now you're just teasing me," the Grandmaster huffs, but the effect is spoiled by the fond smile that's still gracing his features. "Show-off."

They play on; Loki listens to the Grandmaster complain about Sakaarian politics, and Loki commiserates with horror stories from Asgard's political history as well. He enjoys listening to the story of how the Grandmaster got here so long ago, how he instilled some form of order in his little section of town (even if it caused  _dis_ order in other sections).

The night closes in around them, blanketing the room in darkness until the only light is from the nearby lamp and the illumination of the wall panel that controls the lift. Loki's legs are folded up under himself like a pleased cat, the Grandmaster is curled under a soft blanket he pulled out of nowhere. They aren't even physically moving their pieces anymore, too unwilling to move from their cozy places; Loki uses a little servitor to move his pieces and the Grandmaster uses classic telekinesis. Their magic seems to mingle over the board, warming up the close space carved out of darkness by lamplight between them.

He gets to see this; the Grandmaster with his eyeliner a little faded and smudged, his eyes blinking slowly, sleepily. He gets to see this vulnerable, unpolished, untheatrical side of him, and he gets the feeling that he just might be the only one. It seems like a privilege; it seems intimate.

"Checkmate," the Grandmaster finally purrs out, knocking Loki's king over.

"Damn," Loki sighs, uncurling his legs from beneath himself and stretching them out luxuriously.

"Bedtime for you, my dear prince," the Grandmaster says, standing up—but still holding his blanket around himself like a robe. He holds out his hand and Loki takes it, lets the man pull him to his feet. "Tomorrow, of course?"

"Of course," Loki says. The Grandmaster leads him to the lift, but when he reaches for the touch panel, Loki lays a hand over his wrist. The Grandmaster looks from Loki's hand to his eyes, head tilted, a question there.

"What is it?"

"I could stay here," Loki murmurs. "With you. In your bed," he says, slipping closer.

The Grandmaster's eyes widen; he looks terrified for a second, and then  _wanting_ ; Loki knows temptation when he sees it, and for a moment he thinks he might be successful, here; the scent of burnt sugar lingers in the tiny space between them; all it would take is for the Grandmaster to tilt his head and—

The Grandmaster's hand reaches up slowly, strokes Loki's cheek. Loki lets out a ragged sigh, eyes slipping shut as he leans into the warm, reverential touch. And then, suddenly, as if his skin burned him, the Grandmaster pulls back.

Loki's eyes snap open, something like panic lancing through him. The ancient creature's gaze softens, saddens, illuminated by the blue glow of he panel. He shakes his head. "No, Loki," he murmurs. "No."

And again before Loki can speak, before he can ask  _why_ , before he can even make a sound, he finds himself sitting on his bed, in his suite, and terribly, painfully alone.

The Grandmaster's blanket is laid over his shoulders.

He sighs and curls up on the bed underneath the plush blanket that smells just faintly like heat and sugarcane.

-

Everyone says that time works differently on Sakaar. Loki isn't exactly sure how scientifically accurate that is, but at the same time, he can't really tell how long he's been here. It seems like weeks, at this point, though it feels like a year.

It feels like he's known the Grandmaster for longer still.

And it feels like he's been trying to get into the Grandmaster's bed for  _centuries_.

He tells himself it's to further cement his position in the Grandmaster's favor. Sometimes he even managed to believe himself.

They're spending just about every waking moment together now, though Loki does excuse himself from most of the arena matches. Loki teaches him Asgardian games that are ancient to him, but brand-new to the Grandmaster. They laugh and share stories, they play music, they make jokes; they take long walks through the tower just for the joy of stretching their legs, and Loki listens to the Grandmaster go on about the architecture, or the design, or the intricacies of putting together a staff to keep the place running smoothly.

Loki tells him about his own adventures. He tells him about Asgard, about life as a prince. He still leaves out details about Thor; leaves out the treasured memories, stories of his mother. He is too happy here to dredge up those memories. He can't bear to speak of them. Not yet.

(Once the Grandmaster takes him on a joyride in one of his smaller pleasure vessels; not durable, but nimble and alarmingly fast, and Loki laughs, holds on for dear life as the Grandmaster howls and whoops in delight and pilots them in wide loop-de-loops and corkscrews in the sky above Sakaar.

"That was fun," the Grandmaster says, panting, wild-eyed, and Loki takes a second to catch his breath before he says

"It was terrifying, but sometimes that's the same thing," and the Grandmaster looks like he wants to kiss him again.

He doesn't, damn him.)

They play all sorts of games during the day, some are games of luck which Loki understandably wins perhaps half the time; some of them are games of some luck and some skill, which Loki also wins regularly; some of them are games of weird physical skill which Loki occasionally wins, if there's something the Grandmaster is inexplicably bad or unpracticed at—and then games of mental skill, of strategy, which the Grandmaster slays him at every time, though not without enough of a fight to keep the Grandmaster on his toes.

It's the most unbridled fun that Loki's ever had with another person in his long life.

(If he doesn't think about what he's lost, then he's happy.)

-

"Are you sure you'd like to play chess again?" the Grandmaster asks that night after their second game, "I mean—I'd love to, I don't really get tired of it, but do you? Cause we play every night and I worry—"

"I'm going to play chess with you until I beat you at it," Loki says coolly, raising a challenging eyebrow.

"Ooh, well then," the Grandmaster says, "love that, that attitude! By, by all means, bring it on, though we're gonna be playing for a long time," he teases.

"So be it," Loki says as he sets up the board.

"Determination! Now that's an admirable quality! I bet that s-served you well, as a prince."

"It did." Loki slides his bishop across the board. "Until it almost killed me."

"O _ho_? You can't just, just  _say_  something like that and not explain!"

"Well.” Loki rolls his shoulders. “My encounter with the Goddess of Death was not the first time I've fallen from the Bifrost."

As they play, Loki tells the Grandmaster about how his elder brother was a fool, a warmonger; tells him how he had to get him out of line for the throne, for Asgard's sake, how he staged and the disarmed a coup to gain Odin's favor. He speaks carefully, skirts around painful details about Thor. He plays as he speaks, mind whirring as he thinks about the pieces, predicts the Grandmaster's moves. The Grandmaster hangs on every word, eyes wide.

"So, had I not been so  _determined_ ," Loki finished, “I would have surrendered. I would not have fallen off the Bifrost and into the path of Thanos. But that's another—"

"Thanos?" The Grandmaster interrupts him sharply. "He's still around? For heaven's—I figured by now he'd be—did he hurt you? How are you alive?"

"Ah, finally, a name you recognize," Loki says dryly as he moves his queen. "He hurt me, yes, but I survived, and I—would rather not relive the experience right now."

"I—yeah. No. That's, that's fine. Well, Loki, I get what you said about how you've gotta be cautious, back when we first met. You've had, uh—quite the tumult, haven't you?"

Excitement flares in Loki's chest. The Grandmaster has been making all the moves so far that Loki has predicted. For once, he thinks he has a shot at winning. He keeps his composure, his poker face stellar. "One after another, yes."

"So you're not actually Asgardian, you're from... Yo, yoyo-high—"

"Jotunheim." Another move, another move that the Grandmaster makes that works right into Loki's plan.

"Jotunheim, right. That's amazing. No wonder you have trust issues. You should, should always tell a kid right from the start if they're adopted. Damn."

"Yes, that certainly might have helped matters," Loki says lightly. "So now you know my species. I must ask what yours is."

"Oh, I come from a whole planet of Grandmasters, we're all, all really handsome and have great fashion sense.”

Loki rolls his eyes. "I suppose they were all threatened by how you were the  _most_  handsome and fashionable, so you were exiled?"

"Hey, hey, you're right. How'd you know?"

"Wild guess." Obviously the Grandmaster doesn’t want to talk about his planet or his young life. It’s disappointing; Loki is still desperate for information on this man, but the staff know enough to know that they know nothing, and the palace’s residents only have sensationalized, blatantly untrue rumors to tell, and tell they do.

As if the Grandmaster can sense Loki’s disappointment, he sighs. “Listen, I...” A pause. “My world. It’s gone, okay? And it didn’t have a name. My species didn’t have a name. We just  _were._  And—it was so long, so long ago, Loki, I can’t—“ The Grandmaster’s face registers  _hurt_  for a split second and then tries to rearrange itself into neutrality. Like an animal, Loki realizes. He’s masking pain like an injured animal.

“I understand,” Loki says, and instantly the Grandmaster untenses, relief obvious in his countenance.

"Yeah," the Grandmaster sighs. "I bet you do." A pause; a few more moves are made. "Hey, y'know what I  _can_  tell you?"

"Lots of things, probably."

"Hey, really, now. Nobody knows this except—well, not, not really sure how many people know it. Nobody in this tower. Nobody in this system, probably. So, uh." He takes a deep breath. "En Dwi Gast."

"Pardon?"

"En Dwi. That's my name, En Dwi Gast. And yes, before you ask, it  _is_ the one I was born with."

"En Dwi," Loki murmurs. Names hold power; the Grandmaster sharing his is an intimacy that doesn't go over Loki's head. "It's a good name. Unusual."

"Thank you," the Grandmaster—En Dwi—preens. "Don't wear it out."

Loki smiles. "Very well, Grandmaster." He looks down at the board. The Grandmaster is in a  _predicament_ and for once, he doesn't seem to realize it. "Check," Loki says as he slides his rook toward the Grandmaster's king, his voice almost shaking with excitement.

The Grandmaster isn't shocked by Loki putting him in check anymore, it happens with fair frequency; this time, however, when he looks over the board, his brow furrows; he hums thoughtfully. "Well. Would you look at that," he says quietly.

Loki stays silent as the Grandmaster thinks, eyes scanning the board for a solid two minutes before he finally makes a move. Loki manages to hold back a yell of victory; he makes one more move. "Checkmate," he says, and he knows his smugness is audible in his tone but he doesn't  _care._ It's been  _weeks_ and now he's  _finally_ beaten him and—

"Checkmate?!" The Grandmaster shakes his head as if he's clearing something from his ears. "You're—checkmate? No. That can't—" He stares at the board, then up at Loki, then back at the board, then back at Loki, and then he  _laughs_.

The next few moments happen in a blur; Loki is pulled to his feet, the coffee table is kicked aside and then the Grandmaster's trembling hands are cupping his jaw and Loki's being  _kissed_ , the Grandmaster smiling against his lips. Affection and joy crash over Loki in waves. He grasps at the front of the Grandmaster's robes, holding him close as if he  _can_  hold him, as if he has the power to keep this creature in place. The kiss is a little clumsy at first, a little uncoordinated, and then it melts into something slower and more perfect and—

And then the Grandmaster is pulling away and all that joy that was in him is dissipating, and Loki can feel him slipping through his fingers again. "Grandmaster—"

"I'm—I'm sorry, I got—carried away," the Grandmaster says, painfully sincere, "I just—nobody's been able to—to do that in—in so long and, I knew you could and—I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize, you  _fool_ ," Loki says roughly, shaking the front of his robes, "you have nothing to—"

"I'm sorry," the Grandmaster says again, and lifts a hand to snap his fingers and teleport Loki back to his suite, but Loki is quicker this time.

He slaps a hand over the Grandmaster's. "Don't," he says. "Don't you dare, not before you tell me why!"

"Why, why what?" The Grandmaster looks positively haunted.

"Why you send me away every time I show interest in you," Loki says slowly like he's spelling it out as clearly as possible. "Why won't you  _bed_  me? I know you want to! So  _why?!_ "

"You don't—you don't know—Loki, it's not  _right_  for me to ask more of you! You don't have to do anything, all I need from you is games, it's enough!" He runs a hand through his hair. "You're safe here no, no matter what, you don't have to—to  _buy_ —"

It hits Loki like a brick to the sternum.

"You think I feel  _coerced_ ," he says, incredulous, "you think I feel like I  _have_  to!"

"You're living in my tower, you're, you were a  _prisoner_ , and now—"

A frantic, almost relieved laugh bubbles in Loki's chest; he tugs at the Grandmaster's robe to emphasize his words. "I want to bed you," he says.

"I—Loki—You're—it's not fair, it's—"

"No, you don't understand, you still think—I don't know how to make this more  _clear._ En Dwi," he says loudly, invoking his true name, "I don't want to bed you because I fear you or because I feel like I owe you—I want you because—you still don't believe me!" He's frustrated now, because the Grandmaster still looks unconvinced, still looks scared, like he wants to run, and Loki speaks before he can police himself, rising in volume. "Is it true? Can you read minds? I know you  _don't_ , but  _can_  you?"

"What?" The Grandmaster looks bewildered. "Y-yes, I can, why—"

Loki's hand slides up to curl around the back of the Grandmaster's neck; he pulls him in, nudges their foreheads together.

If he does this, he'll be potentially showing the Grandmaster everything; trusting him not to go digging, rifling through his memories like an old file cabinet. He'll be showing the Grandmaster his cards, his hand on full display.

The Grandmaster will see what Loki is too frightened to admit, even to himself; that he's never had more fun, never felt closer to another being in his life.

So be it.

"Read my mind," he says, voice steady. "Read my mind, Grandmaster."

The Grandmaster's dark eyes widen, search Loki's for a split second before he nods, just a little. "Okay," he says quietly.

Loki doesn't flinch when he feels the other presence at the forefront of his mind; he can feel the Grandmaster, ancient and unknowable, incomprehensible, old magic washing gently over his thoughts.

 _Do you see?_  Loki thinks, tipping his head up to brush his nose against the Grandmaster's, a little nuzzle.  _Do you understand?_

He can feel the Grandmaster's breath shaky on his face, can feel his thoughts pull reluctantly back from Loki's own. Even as his mind retreats, his hands move up, once again cupping Loki's jaw, thumbs stroking delicately over his cheekbones. "Yes," he breathes into the tiny space between them, and finally he smiles, his gaze unguarded and soft, "yes, I understand."

Slowly, hesitantly, still half-terrified that the Grandmaster will run away, Loki tilts his head and brushes their lips together. The Grandmaster gives a shaky sigh, one hand moving to card gently through Loki's hair, curl around the back of his skull. His happiness is tangible, coming off of him in waves, and it's contagious; Loki gives a pleased little noise, slides his arms to wrap around the Grandmaster's neck. Their kissed deepen fast, and Loki almost purrs as he gets that addictive taste again, that magic fizzling and sparking and tempered by sugar, a sweetened wildfire.

The Grandmaster isn't sending him away this time, Loki remembers and he shivers, pleased: the Grandmaster isn't sending him away. He's going to stay.

The kiss ends when Loki has to breathe; he pulls back and catches his breath, laughing just a little in his sheer joy; the Grandmaster is looking at him in that strange, reverent way, like Loki is something rare and wonderful. "My, my dear,  _smart_  prince," he purrs, "c'mon." He takes Loki's hands, pulls him not toward the lift but toward the archway into his bedroom. Loki follows without hesitation, eyes sweeping over the surroundings.

"Have I ever told you that you have wonderful taste for interior design?"

"I have wonderful taste for a lot of things," the Grandmaster hums.

"Obviously," Loki says with a cocky smirk, and pushes the Grandmaster gently toward the bed, covered with plush jewel-toned blankets.

"Hey, hey, slow down, no reason to, to rush." The Grandmaster kisses him again, achingly slow, as if to prove his point.

"I've  _done_  slow," Loki complains when the kiss breaks, hands slipping into the Grandmaster's robe, fingertips dipping up beneath his shirt, "I've done slow for the past—how long have I been here?"

"Don't know," the Grandmaster hums, "we've got all the time in the..." His own hands slide up the leather covering Loki's torso; he blinks a few times, his train of thought apparently derailed as he slides his fingers over the sides and then the back of the garment. "For heaven's sake," he huffs, brow furrowing, "how does this thing come off?"

Loki laughs. "Well—you've got to take the vambraces off first," he says, "and the cloak, and—"

"You live—you live in a, what'd you call this place, a  _palace,_ why are you dressed like you're living in a  _warzone,"_ he grumbles, hands moving to the laces of Loki's armbands, undoing them with clever fingers and letting them drop to the floor.

"Now the cloak," Loki prompts, unfastening it from its place at his shoulders; he lets it join the vambraces on the floor by his feet, "and then the armor itself. Now, this front panel comes away, and beneath there's hooks and loops. Let me just—"

"No, no magic, this is fun, it's a game, it's a puzzle," the Grandmaster says. Within moments he finds the tiny laces on one side holding the tough, armored panel over Loki's chest; he undoes them and moves the panel aside. Theres a softer layer of leather underneath, metal hooks and eyes holding it shut. Loki watches his quietly determined expression as he undoes each closure, notes the pleasure on his face when he finally gets the whole thing off, spreads the two sides of the garment open; he lets out a low whistle, runs a warm palm up Loki's sternum. "You are... wow," he says, " _wow._ "

"Eloquent," Loki teases, rolling his shoulders to shrug fully out of the garment and let it join the cloak and vambraces.

"I'm, I'm known for, for eloq—you  _really_ are lovely," he says, apparently abandoning the first thought and going straight into another, "like, yeah. Wow. See what I mean? It's about the anticipation. You can't just use magic and snap your fingers and—the anticipation is half the fun, right?" His hands slip down Loki's waist, resting just above the waistband of his trousers.

"Patience isn't my strongest attribute," Loki confesses, reaching for the tie holding the Grandmaster's robe shut and pulling it open before reaching up and pushing the gauzy golden thing off his shoulders. It flows like water and pools around the Grandmaster's feet.

"It's a virtue, I'm told." The Grandmaster's palms run over Loki's hipbones, fingertips dipping  _just below_ his waistband.

Loki tugs the Grandmaster's own arm bracers off and tosses them down. "Yes, well, I'm not big on those." His hands shamelessly ruck up the Grandmaster's shirt, over his slightly soft stomach and to his chest.

"Hey, hey, that does come off, you know, no need to wrinkle it," the Grandmaster chuckles and pulls the silky shirt up over his head. Loki's breath feels stolen; the contrast of Loki's pale hands against the Grandmaster's tanned skin  _is_ a delight, and Loki makes an appreciative noise as he surges forward and kisses the Grandmaster once more.

Loki can feel the Grandmaster's heart pounding in his chest, right up against his own; it beats like a jackrabbit, betraying his excitement, his desperation, that patience nothing more than a veneer. It's a triumph; Loki grins wolfishly against the Grandmaster's mouth, nips at his lower lip, smears that blue paint with his tongue. His hands move to his own armored trousers, undoing the closure expertly and slipping them down before stepping out of them (his boots were already off; he goes barefoot in the Grandmaster's chamber); he's in only his soft, silky underthings now; they cling, leaving nothing at all to the Grandmaster's imagination; he brings their hips together and he can feel the Grandmaster's tiny gasp.

"Oh, yeah, this is good," the Grandmaster sighs, lips moving down from Loki's lips to his jaw to his neck, leaving little blue-stained kisses in his wake, Loki can feel the paint against his skin, sticky, marking.

"It'd be better with your trousers off," Loki says, tipping his head back to offer the Grandmaster better access to the long column of his throat.

When he's done this in the past, some large part of his mind has always been on guard;  _bare your throat but keep your seiðr close in case your paramour tries to slit it_. Now, though, it seems  _ridiculous_  that the Grandmaster would hurt him; Loki's seiðr seems far away, unnecessary, superfluous.

This is what trust feels like, he realizes, emotion clouding his sight for just a moment; he draws the Grandmaster closer, one hand slipping into his hair.

The feeling leaves him raw. Trusting another is a weakness, but this doesn't feel like weakness, this feels like strength, like a power, an asset.

"Are you okay?" the Grandmaster asks against Loki's skin, "You stopped moving, so—"

"I have never been more so," Loki says, hands moving down to the Grandmaster's trousers until he finds the drawstring there, undoing the neat bow with a quick tug. "Off with these, my Grandmaster."

_My Grandmaster?  
_

The Grandmaster shivers and nods, lets Loki thumb them down off his hips. The thin material falls easily and the Grandmaster steps out of them, kicks them away. Loki gives a satisfied noise, looks down over the Grandmaster's body; he's wonderful, finely muscled and slender yet sweetly soft around the edges. Loki notes with delight that the Grandmaster is fully hard, his cock flushed and wanting. "No blue stripe?" Loki asks with mock surprise.

"Caught me on an off day."

"And how did I  _know_  you wouldn't be wearing underthings?" Loki teases, rocking close again to bring their hips together, only one layer of thin fabric between them.

"Absolutely ruins the fit of those pants, you see—uh, you see, you see lines," the Grandmaster manages, pulling Loki back toward the bed. "Okay, this isn't fair, why are you still wearing clothes? Can I—?" His own fingers tug lightly at Loki's waistband, eyes slipping up to meet Loki's, asking permission  _again,_ and Loki groans.

"Of course," he huffs, and pushes the Grandmaster onto the bed. He falls there sprawled out with one hand behind himself to hold himself up. He looks wrecked, paint smudged over his lips and chin, and he's staring up at Loki like he's something to worship, something to be appreciated, admired, loved.

 _Loved?_  No. The Grandmaster doesn't love him. Admires him, admires what he can do, perhaps, has fun with him, but doesn't love him. How could he?

Loki ignores that thought and lets his soft undergarments fall to the ground; he steps out of them, leaves them where they sit. He can hear the Grandmaster's tiny intake of breath and then his appreciative purr. "What are you, a cat?" he huffs out on a laugh as he joins the Grandmaster on the bed, settling over his lap, straddling his hips.

The Grandmaster just purrs harder in response, nuzzling up against his neck again; Loki hums, gently pulls back on the Grandmaster's hair and guides him into a kiss. He tries to make it a hard, demanding one, but the Grandmaster somehow slows him down and Loki is lost in the sensuality of it, the way the man kisses him once, twice, over and over, slowly deepening with each one, stealing Loki's breath and bringing an embarrassing whimper from his throat.

"Can I touch you?" the Grandmaster asks when Loki pulls back to breathe, "like, can I—"

"I'm naked in your lap," Loki pants out, "you can do anything you like."

"Just checking," the Grandmaster chirps, and Loki sighs as a warm hand wraps around his cock. "Yeah, there you go," the Grandmaster praises softly as Loki's hips automatically roll, searching for friction.

He knows he could come like this, from the Grandmaster kissing and touching him, but Loki knows he can improve things. "I'll do one better," he says, lightly pushing the Grandmaster's hand away; he slots his hips forward a little, pressing their cocks together; he uses his seiðr to coat his hand in oil and wraps it around _both_ of them. The Grandmaster gasps as Loki rocks against his dick, into his own hand.

"Oh—yeah, mhm, that's—that's one better," the Grandmaster babbles before Loki shuts him up with another kiss, moaning into his mouth. The slick pressure is  _good_  and Loki needs this, he's needed it for too long; he moves his hand a little faster, rocks his hips a little more insistently—

"H-hey, slow, slow down," the Grandmaster protests; he lies on his back, pulls Loki down with him, then hooks an ankle around Loki's and expertly flips them over. "There we go," he hums, satisfied; Loki cries out as the Grandmaster thrusts down against him excruciatingly lazily, drags their slick cocks together between their stomachs.

"Grandmaster, would it k-kill you to hurry up," Loki grinds out, thrusting his hips up against the Grandmaster's for punctuation.

"No," the Grandmaster replies cheerily, but his hand moves to Loki's hip and holds him firmly down. Loki tries to wiggle and _can't_. "Just, just enjoy."

Loki wraps his legs up around the Grandmaster's waist, uses them to pull the Grandmaster tight up against him. The Grandmaster still does move quickly, just rocks against him at this lazy, easy pace. It's _good_ , tension slowly building low in Loki's stomach, and he _knows_ he could come like this, but he wants more, he's wanted more for weeks. The Grandmaster's hand moves from Loki's hip to their cocks, and Loki sighs, enjoys the touch for a moment before his own hand encircles the Grandmaster's wrist.

"I can do you one better," he murmurs, and pulls the Grandmaster's hand lower, below his balls and to the curve of his ass; the Grandmaster's breath hitches as Loki guides his fingertips to his hole, finds it wet already.

"Now that's a trick," the Grandmaster says, admiration in his voice, "isn't magic just, just the best?" His fingertips press lightly against Loki's entrance, rubbing in little circles but never dipping inside. It feels good, but it's frustrating.

"Grandmaster," he grits out, "if you're waiting for permission, might I remind you that you  _have_  it."

"Thanks for the, uh, heads-up," the Grandmaster teases, "but really, y'know, patience."

"I've  _been_  patien—ah!" Loki gasps as the Grandmaster slides a long digit inside him, fucks him with it in short, lazy motions.

"Oh, you feel good inside," he sighs, "all tight and hot and soft, I could do this all day."

"Please don't," Loki grinds out, and the Grandmaster positively giggles as he pulls back just to add another finger.

"But I could! It's  _fun_ ," the Grandmaster says, and curls his two fingers up to punctuate. Loki arches at the firm pressure against his prostate, pleasure jolting through him.

"Hhhh," is all he manages as the Grandmaster's fingers work inside him, curling and uncurling, stroking over his sweet spot and never really letting up the pressure.

"See? Fun," the Grandmaster says, affection in his voice and his fingers twisting expertly, "oh, look at you, beautiful—" Loki groans and tries to work his hips back against the Grandmaster's hand, searching for  _more_ , but the Grandmaster responds by pulling his fingers back entirely—he sits back on his haunches, puts his other hand low on Loki's stomach and holds him down. "Stay put," he orders, and before Loki can complain or respond at all his fingers are sliding back inside him.

The Grandmaster's digits are warm inside him, knuckles dragging and fingertips stroking exactly where he needs it; he wants to touch himself, wants to fist his cock and come on the Grandmaster's fingers, but he wants even more to come on his cock, so he grits his teeth and curls his hands in the plush bedclothes instead, nails tearing at the velveteen as his legs tense and his toes curl. "There, you're getting the hang of it," the Grandmaster praises him, voice low, "just, just  _roll_  with it. Feels good, right?"

"Yes," Loki hisses, eyes clamped shut, "hurry up, G—" his words are bitten off by a half-sob as the Grandmaster adds a third finger, spreads them wide and drags all three right against Loki's sweet spot, knuckles stretching his rim. It's starting to feel like coming but without the  _release_ , pleasure rolling through him in slow waves; he can feel fluid leaking from his cock onto his belly and yet he's just shaking and desperate for more.

"Oh, yeah, definitely could do this all day," the Grandmaster says, "you are  _gorgeous_  Iike this. You're gorgeous all the time," he adds, hand still moving at this slow, reliable, unrelenting pace, "but you should see, see yourself—you're all wet and hot and—"

"Fuck me," Loki interrupts, "fuck me, I'm ready, fuck me!"

The Grandmaster doesn't stop. "I am," he says, a smirk in his voice, and Loki's eyes snap open to glare at him.

"With your  _cock_."

"Oh!" Reluctantly, the Grandmaster withdraws his fingers; his eyes sparkle mischievously. "Why didn't you say so?"

Loki growls and sits up, pulls on the Grandmaster's shoulders and rolls him into his back so that Loki can straddle him again. The Grandmaster lets him, moving cooperatively along. "I didn't think I had to spell it out," Loki says, gathering oil in his hand with magic again and palming the Grandmaster's cock to slick it up. The Grandmaster hisses softly, presses up against Loki's hand.

"I like specificity," the Grandmaster manages, "you've got to be specific about w-what you, ah—what you want, o-or—"

His words break off into a sweet, shocked noise as Loki guides his cock against his hole and sinks back onto it without hesitation. Loki moans appreciatively as the flared tip pops past his rim, the rest of the slick length sliding in and stretching him open in the best of ways. He pauses for a moment when he's fully seated in the Grandmaster's lap, admires the view; the man beneath him is breathing hard, eyes wide, lips parted in wonder. Loki lays a hand on the Grandmaster's chest, partially for balance and partially to feel that heartbeat under his palm, feel the old, primal magic coursing through his body and fighting to break free; he experimentally clenches his muscles around the Grandmaster's thick cock and he can feel the vibration of the noise he makes in his chest.

"That  _specific_  enough for you?" Loki teases, rising up on his knees a few inches before sliding back down, relishing the fullness, the blunt, unfocused pressure against his sweet spot, the slight burn of muscles long unused.

"Y-yeah, I'd say—say so," the Grandmaster manages, "stars, Loki, you—you feel—"

Loki rocks his hips slowly, grinding down onto the Grandmaster's cock rather than moving it in and out. "Yes?" he asks, breathless, "tell me."

The Grandmaster rises up, sitting upright and Loki's pretty sure he uses magic to teleport them just a short distance because they're closer to the head of the bed now, the Grandmaster's back against the headboard and Loki still seated in his lap. "You feel  _good_ ," he breathes, hands sliding reverentially up Loki's back.

"As do you," Loki replies, and it's true; the Grandmaster's cock feels impossibly warm, firmly holding him open and giving him something to clench around. It's grounding; Loki feels like he belongs here.

He begins to move, hips rolling as he rises up and down just a little at a time, just enough. The Grandmaster is looking up at him with this soft expression, this look in his eyes that just registers wonder, disbelief, affection; it's too much, and Loki's face drops to burrow against the Grandmaster's neck. "Oh, you're—you're so good, Loki, you k-keep me on my toes, you—you're so  _brilliant_  and—and—" his words fall off in a choked moan as Loki speeds up a little.

Loki wants so badly to come, to touch his own cock, but he's unwilling to take his hands from the Grandmaster's body, his chest and neck, both hands over pulse points. That almost-coming feeling is slipping over him again; pearly fluid drips down his own cock, smears against the Grandmaster's stomach, just that tiny bit of contact almost enough to push Loki over.

"Loki, Loki," the Grandmaster gasps out, " _Loki_ , I think, I think I can do you one, one better." One of his big hands moves to the back of Loki's head, gently tugs at his hair to guide him back up to look at him; the Grandmaster nudges their foreheads together. "Can I, can I please," he murmurs, begging, and Loki nods.

"Yes," he says, and it's like a circuit between them is closed. Loki almost shouts; the Grandmaster is everywhere, against him, inside his body, within his mind; but this time it's a two-way street, he feels the Grandmaster's thoughts and emotions just as the Grandmaster feels his; Loki can feel the Grandmaster's  _pleasure_ , it heightens his own which then feeds back to the Grandmaster in this perfect loop. Loki is lost as emotion pours across their link, adoration, affection,  _love_ , and the Grandmaster is still looking into Loki's eyes like he sees something incredible there (he  _does, he does_ ) and Loki feels like the force of it is burning him down and building him anew.

The Grandmaster _does_ love him. It should terrify him and yet he just accepts it as fact; water is wet, fire is hot, Loki and the Grandmaster are in love.

They're breathing each other's air as they begin to move and they're less the Grandmaster and Loki and more  _Grandmaster-and-Loki_ , no single personality taking over the other, just intertwining. Loki moves a little faster and the Grandmaster kisses him again, desperately, he can't get enough.

_loki, loki, loki_

The Grandmaster's hand moves to Loki's cock, fingers curling around its precome-slick length, stroking in long motions that match Loki's up-down movements in his lap; the pleasure is incredible, the Grandmaster inside his ass and around his cock and in his  _head_ , and Loki  _feels_  how tight he is inside, how good it is for the Grandmaster. He feels the depth of love that this ancient creature has for him, this ancient creature that could collapse stars and break apart galaxies, all for him.

He'd do the same for the Grandmaster, he realizes, he'd do anything for this being that respects and cares for him, who's given him a home and admires his abilities rather than ridicules him for them; who accepts his trickster nature and loves him all the more for it.

Tension builds in his stomach, in his chest, and he doesn't want this to end, wants to stretch it out as long as possible but then the Grandmaster's thumb is rubbing slick circles into the sensitive crown of his cock and there's pressure on his sweet spot and Loki's crying out as he comes, body curling inward and tensing, untensing in time with his too-fast heartbeat, waves of it pulsing within him as he spills hot over the Grandmaster's fingers and clenches rhythmic around his cock.

_yes good love you love you love youlove **youloveyou**_

He hears the Grandmaster panting beneath him, feels him shaking with Loki's orgasm like it was his own; he felt it through their connection. Loki takes a second to recover just a little bit, dips his head down to kiss the Grandmaster slowly, sweetly before he starts to move again. His thighs burn and tremble and the Grandmaster must feel it for he shushes him gently and pushes Loki onto his back, moves inside him carefully.

_is it too much should i stop? no no en dwi gast you stop i'll slit your throat as you sleep_

The Grandmaster laughs low in his throat and Loki's unsteady legs wrap round his waist; his cock is softening but he feels the Grandmaster's pleasure like his own and he hums out a low, happy noise as the Grandmaster fucks into him, his hips working up lazily to meet his movements. He's oversensitive, each thrust sending sparks up his spine, but it's  _nice_  and the Grandmaster is whispering against his neck in a language his Allspeak can't translate and his mind is filled with happiness and pleasure and Loki feels like he's floating.

He feels when the Grandmaster comes, not just in his stuttering hips and pulsing cock and the sweet sound he makes in his throat; he feels it in his own body, an orgasm in slow motion, and Loki keens with it, his body overworked, his mind bowled over.

The Grandmaster finally stills against him, lays their foreheads together again. They just breathe each other's air for a long moment, recovering, before the Grandmaster starts the process of untangling their thoughts. Loki protests with a little whimper as he feels the Grandmaster slipping away from his mind until he's alone in his head once more.

His skull feels too big for him, with only one consciousness bouncing around inside. He swallows a few times, gets used to just being Loki again.

"Yeah," he finally says, throat dry, "that was one better." The Grandmaster grins and kisses him on the mouth, lingering and sweet before pulling back to drop quick little kisses all over his face. Loki laughs and lightly shoves at his chest, plays at pushing him away. "Get off me, you fool!"

"I just did get you off!" the Grandmaster says between kisses.

"No, no, not 'get me off,' get off me!" Loki couldn't mean it less, couldn't have less force behind his words.

The Grandmaster drops one more smiling kiss onto his lips before he eases back, slipping out of Loki; he sits back on his legs and draws his hands down Loki's chest, lets out a low whistle. "Oh, yeah, that looks good," he praises, and Loki lets out an embarrassing squeak when the Grandmaster easily presses two fingers into his wet hole, slipping his fingers through his own come.

"If you think you're going for round two, you are  _severely_  mistaken," Loki warns with no venom.

"Sorry, I know, just can't resist touching a little, feels too nice," the Grandmaster says without a trace of apology at all; he crooks his fingers a little and Loki  _screeches_ , twists away and bats at the Grandmaster's hand. "Sorry, sorry," the Grandmaster says over a grin, withdrawing and holding up both palms in surrender. "How's about we get cleaned u—oh."

Loki's already waved a hand and both of them are instantly perfectly clean, all traces of sweat and oil and come gone from their bodies and the bed.

"That's... another really good trick," the Grandmaster admits, "but I will have you in the bathtub at some point, I swear." He settles down next to Loki, pulls him into his arms.

Loki feels boneless, pliable; he curls up, slides one leg between the Grandmaster's just to get closer. "We're on top of the covers," he complains idly, making no move to fix the situation.

"Ah, here's a little trick of my own." Inside a split second the covers have phased through their bodies, lifted above them, and resolidified; the Grandmaster releases his telekinetic hold and the bedclothes fall delicately over them.

"Oh, that's a good one," Loki says, "matter manipulation. That's...useful."

"You're telling me." The Grandmaster kisses the corner of Loki's mouth, nuzzles their noses together. "Go on, go, go to sleep, my twin flame."

Loki stretches luxuriously,  _hmmm_ s in response. "Do you sleep?"

"Yeah. It feels nice." He rubs at Loki's back, up between his shoulder blades. "Loki?" he asks after a few moments.

"Yes?"

"If I get bored in the middle of the night, y'know, as you do," he says, "I can wake you up to play chess or something, right?"

"Absolutely not," Loki says, and the Grandmaster chuckles, pulls him closer. There's a long moment; Loki floats in the happy space between  _sleep_ and  _awake_ for a second before he remembers something the Grandmaster had said.

_The Commodore will always be there. I don't know how long you will be._

"You were right, when you said I had a home," Loki says just loud enough for the Grandmaster to hear. "I'm not going anywhere."

The Grandmaster shudders, just a little. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

Their thoughtbond might be severed but Loki—Loki's certain he can feel relief, happiness, trust radiating off the Grandmaster.

He never intended to go and fall in love. And it should terrify him, it should paralyze him. And yet he just feels  _secure.  
_

-

Loki is awakened by a squeak of surprise. His eyes fly open to see Selene standing in the archway holding a breakfast tray.

The Grandmaster is still asleep and softly snoring next to him. Loki grins and sits up carefully. "Hi," he signs.

"Hi yourself," she signs back after setting down the tray. "I guess this explains why you weren't in your room!"

"You check on me before the Grandmaster in the morning?"

"His orders," she signs. "I guess I need to bring another breakfast tray." She rolls her eyes but her pointy-toothed smile ruins the effect. "I'll be back."

The Grandmaster snuffles quietly in his sleep, pawing with one hand to try and find Loki's warmth again.

-

If Loki had thought the Grandmaster was handsy before, it was nothing compared to now. He seems to constantly want to be in bodily contact with Loki, holding his hand or nuzzling against his neck or just resting against him. Loki isn't used to that level of physical affection but he's not opposed to it, either, and he's got to say that matches in the arena are a lot more enjoyable when he can spend them in the Grandmaster's lap.

The Grandmaster is spending all his time with Loki, it seems; Topaz has been hounding him for days that there's a diplomatic meeting of some sort that needs his presence but he always waves her off, tells her to reschedule it. She looks at Loki venomously, and Loki just smiles in response.

Loki hadn't known it was possible to be this happy; he's comfortable and loved and safe in the upper echelon, as high as he can get; his lover—twin flame, had En Dwi said?—is a damn-near all-powerful elder of the universe; he lives in a palace and spends his days laughing and playing games and taking in entertainment and being showered with sheer adoration. Sometimes he makes intricate spells for the Grandmaster to  _ooh_ and  _aah_ over, little harmless pranks for him to admire, and admire he does.

They play all sorts of games, both innocent (chess, Go, mancala, games from all across the universe) and less so ("who can last the longest before coming?"). Every day is something new, something fun, something challenging.

They thoughtbond when they're intimate, sometimes even just when they're cuddling in bed after a long day; even when their thoughts aren't intertwined, a ghost of the connection remains. They can sense each other, can feel one another's emotions in a dampened sort of way.

The undercurrent of fear normally present in his life is gone. Loki is  _happy_.

He probably should have known, he thinks later, that it couldn't possibly last.

-

Thor appears.

Loki is happy to see him alive and he is also terrified. Thor being here on Sakaar means he's safe; Thor being on Sakaar means he’s not on Asgard, killed by Hela.

"Do you know this, this... lord of thunder?" the Grandmaster asks, looking over at Loki. He can sense Loki's tension, Loki knows it, and he can feel just a little bit of worry from the Grandmaster in response.

" _God_  of thunder," Thor protests. “Loki, tell him.”

"I have never seen this man before in my life." The second Loki says it he knows it's not going to fly, so he mainly says it just to be difficult. Thor will complain, and the Grandmaster can sense the blatant lie. Sure enough, Thor about loses his mind.

" _He's my brother!_ "

"Adopted," Loki clarifies.

The Grandmaster jovially gives Thor the opportunity to win his freedom, and Loki has no doubt that he will, and then he'll  _leave_ , and Loki's life here won't be turned upside down.

That's the idea, anyway.

-

"Is it really okay to throw him in the ring?" the Grandmaster asks over their nightly game; they've moved on from chess for tonight and are on to a game similar to checkers called petteia.

"Yes," Loki says without hesitation. "He will be fine. And he will make a wonderful show," he adds. "He's nothing if not creative with that—"  _That hammer,_ he was about to say, and mentally winces. Mjolnir is gone, shattered into a dozen pieces by its original wielder. "He's nothing if not creative with how he approaches battles," Loki amends.

"Just to be super clear," the Grandmaster says, "this is the brother you, uh, got exiled, because he was a hothead?"

"The very same."

"Ooh. Fun. Well, I'm not sure he'll beat my champion. You haven't seen him yet. He's big," the Grandmaster says. "I won't let him die," he adds quietly. "Hothead or not. I wouldn't want Taneleer to die, even if he's... the way he is. Brothers are weird like that," he says.

"Much appreciated," Loki says, and shoves the game board aside to climb into the Grandmaster's lap; the Grandmaster's arms fasten around him, hands affectionately sliding up the back of his shirt. "He's going to try to escape," Loki warns, "and he may succeed."

"And will you bring him back for me?"

The words aren't laced with any kind of threat or unspoken subtext that Loki can sense; It's an actual question, and Loki gets the idea that he'd accept any answer without protest.

"Yes, I will," Loki says. "He's certainly safer here than he would be on Asgard right now."

-

Loki goes to see Thor in the prison block. He knows Thor will escape, or at least he will try, so it's best to establish some kind of false trust with him before that occurs so that he can reel him back in more easily when it happens.

Thor throws a rock at his conjure's face. So, not super friendly, then.

-

The Grandmaster's champion is the  _Hulk._

He's nervous through the fight because, well,  _obvious reasons._ The only speck of joy Loki feels the entire ordeal is when Thor gets thrown around like a rag doll; he leaps to his feet and shouts  _yes! now you know what it feels like!_

The Grandmaster raises an eyebrow at him and Loki just blurts out "I'm a big fan of the sport," and the Grandmaster gives him a look that says  _sure you are._

-

Thor and the Hulk manage to get free, which is something of a shock, because the security here is  _good,_ but not too much of a shock because Thor is determination and brute force wrapped up in a blonde shell.

"You're his brother," the Grandmaster says, "do you think you can track him down?"

"Yes," Loki says, "I can."

"Or I will," says Scrapper 142.

"Ooh! A competition!" the Grandmaster singsongs, "whoever comes back with him first gets... well, I'll think of something good. Now go get my champion and the lord of thunder!"

-

Thor, the foolish bastard, wants to go back to Asgard with the Hulk and Valkyrie and Loki in tow to try and defeat their wayward sister.

The situation is beyond hopeless. Asgard is as good as fallen and in Loki's opinion, if Hela wants to conquer more realms, well, that's none of Loki's business. Thor will be safer here on Sakaar, and as far as Loki is concerned, it's practically his duty as a brother—the  _clever_ brother—to betray him and throw him back in prison.

He already thought his brother dead once. He doesn't relish the idea of thinking it again. He  _really_  doesn't relish the idea of being right about it. So he 'helps' Thor all the way into the hangar where the Commodore lies, and when he's off-guard, Loki turns on him. Like a good brother.

"The Grandmaster has offered me quite the reward for your return," he says, which isn't really the truth, but like  _fuck_  he's going to tell Thor about his newfound twin flame, that would take  _far_ too long to explain, and Thor wouldn't understand, and probably wouldn't feel too favorable about the situation.

When Thor electrocutes him, Loki is almost proud. Well, he's being electrocuted, pain coursing through every fiber of his being as he's completely immobilized, but it  _had_  been quite the bit of sneakiness on Thor's part and Loki, well, Loki admires that. Maybe he's growing as a person.

His brother kneels beside him, leans down and speaks gently.  _You've always been a trickster, but you could be so much more,_  he says, and then he leaves Loki there with the remote for the damned obedience disc he'd slapped on him just out of reach.

He isn't sure exactly how long it is—it feels like forever, because he's in excruciating pain—but finally he is rescued by this giant, sapient  _rock,_ and there's several other misfits standing behind. The rock creature cheerily says something about staging a revolution, and Loki realizes that Thor has set the prisoners—at least some of them—free.

Loki's mind works quickly.

Thor is going to Asgard. Asgard is going to  _burn._ Thor will be killed, the Valkyrie will be killed, as will every single adult and child who stands behind them. The only hope to save  _anyone_  on the planet is to evacuate them from it, and the one chance to do it is  _now._

He'll be leaving the Grandmaster.

He'll be leaving the Grandmaster alone on Sakaar with the fighters set free and attempting to revolt. He'll be  _leaving_ this place that has become his home, he'll be leaving when he promised he wasn't going anywhere. There is no time to explain, he can't just tell these prisoners  _oh, sorry, must go let the Grandmaster know what's going on first,_ and not only that, moments on Sakaar translate to hours on the other side of the universe; the time it would take to go speak with the Grandmaster could easily be the difference between success and defeat. He has to act now or never; do, or thousands die.

The Grandmaster is an elder of the universe, immortal, all-powerful; he'll be fine no matter what, Loki thinks desperately; he'll be fine, he'll sort things out here on Sakaar and—

And maybe, maybe, Loki will see him again someday.

Pain grips his heart as he speaks.

"You look like you're in  _desperate_  need of leadership."

-

They've got the largest ship in the hangar and they're taking it toward the portal, Loki and the rock creature Korg and heaven knows how many other former fighters; the massive ship can travel shockingly fast, and the closer they get to the portal the more Loki feels—terrified? Anguished?

It's only a few seconds before he realizes that they aren't  _his_ emotions, they're the Grandmaster's, and Loki almost screams, leans against the nearest surface.

 _loki!_ he hears loud and clear in his head,  _loki you're moving too fast i can't lock on i can't teleport onto the ship loki_

Loki grits his teeth, the lump in his throat physically hurting; there's a ship tailing them visible on the nearby viewscreen, that same small quick ship that the Grandmaster took him for a joyride in. Loki  _knows_ the Grandmaster is in it, chasing after him.

Loki tries to reply, thinks back  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ but the Grandmaster doesn't seem to hear. Their ship careens toward the portal and the Grandmaster's voice in his head just seems to get louder and more terrified and part of Loki wishes he could block it out and the other half is desperately grateful for this one last thoughtbond, as painful and incomplete as it is.

_LOKI NO NO DON'T GO LOKI DON'T—_

And then the ship is through the portal and the bond is severed entirely.

Loki almost  _falls,_ leans more heavily on the surface (the back of a pilot's chair); he's alone. He hadn't realized exactly how much he could sense the Grandmaster until now, until that easy presence at the corner of his consciousness is gone.

Loki is alone again, and so is his twin flame.

-

In the end, Asgard doesn't so much burn as explode _._

His home is nothing more than dust and rubble floating in space. The Bifrost is destroyed. And Thor wants to go to  _Midgard,_ which—is a terrible idea, frankly, but at least the climate is more hospitable than, say, Jotunheim.

He wants to scream, wants to beg to be let back through the portal, dropped back onto Sakaar, but there's no hope of that. Sakaar is no place for all these people, and there is no way to just let Loki off; they emptied out the escape pods to make room for as many people as possible. Loki had organized the process himself.

The wounded are tended to, the entire Asgardian population now resting, asleep in their various quarters; it had been a massive production, but everyone is settled.  _Selene would have had everyone organized and put in bed inside of an hour,_ Loki thinks, and then pain lances through him again.  _Selene_. How has she fared? Was the revolution kind to her? Surely the Grandmaster would keep her safe—but the Grandmaster wasn't  _in_ the tower, he was in his racing ship. He rubs his hands over his face. He can't think about it. He  _can't,_ for if he starts, he won't stop.

It would be perhaps three in the morning on Asgard now, if it still existed, and though Loki is exhausted, he cannot hope to sleep. His mind keeps replaying the Grandmaster's voice, the absolute anguish and horror as Loki slipped away from him. It's either that or he watches Asgard die before his eyes once more; he stares out into the vast emptiness of space, just watches the stars slide by, wonders how many of them are dead already, how many ghosts he's seeing.

He hears soft footsteps and he looks over his shoulder. Thor. "Hello, brother," he sighs.

"Hello," Thor replies, nudging his shoulder against Loki's. "You were a hero today, Loki."

"Of course I was," he says with mock bravado. "Loki, savior of Asgard's people. Perhaps they'll put up another statue."

Thor smiles, the corner of his remaining eye crinkling. "Perhaps they will. I wouldn't count on it, though."

"Ungrateful," Loki sighs. They stand there quietly for a long moment, in companionable silence. They're all each other have, now; their home is gone, their mother and father are gone. They are orphans now, children of no world. Speaking of which. "Are you sure going to Midgard is a good idea for me? After... you know."

"After you tried to take it over by force?" Thor sounds almost amused.

"I was going through a difficult time," Loki says, and Thor just chuckles.

"Well, I suppose we all have our coping mechanisms," Thor says. "Maybe try scrapbooking next time."

" _What_ in the name of the  _Norns_ is scrapbooking?"

"Ah, it is a popular Midgardian hobby, you place... photographs and leaves and other various ephemera into a book, for safekeeping, or display, or—"

"That sounds positively  _wretched,"_ Loki says, "but perhaps more healthy a coping method than attempting to dominate an entire planet, yes, I'll give you that."

Thor chuckles and nudges his shoulder affectionately once more and Loki smiles for the first time since he decided to leave Sakaar. Loki is quietly grateful for Thor's affection, for the easy joking between them. It makes things feel normal.

"So," Thor says lightly after a long moment, "what was going on between you and the Grandmaster?"

Loki chokes on a breath, spluttering for a second before he manages to wheeze out words. "Pardon me?"

"I know it was something _,_ Loki. You gained favor with him somehow _._ He was attempting to  _wink_ at you. And you never look so uncomfortable unless—"

"All right. You've said  _enough_."

Thor's brow furrows. "Did he hurt you?"

"No!" Loki snaps, defensive of the Grandmaster even now. He takes a deep breath, calms down. "No. I promise you, he did not."

Thor looks even more puzzled. "Then why—"

"I was  _happy,_ Thor. Beyond that, make whatever conclusion you wish. I don't want to speak of it."  _How ironic,_ Loki thinks. He didn't tell the Grandmaster about Thor because it was too painful, and now he won't tell Thor about the Grandmaster for the same reason.

Thor looks at him for a long moment, brow still furrowed as he thinks, and then he sighs, sudden comprehension almost visible on his face. "I can't say that I fully understand," he says, slowly, "but I'm sorry. I'm  _sorry,_ Loki."

Loki doesn't respond, but when Thor lays an arm around his shoulders suddenly he's a child again, knees skinned, tears threatening to fall, his big brother holding him and telling him everything's going to be fine. It's weakness, to lean against Thor and let him wrap both arms around him. It's weakness to bury his face against his big brother's chest and selfishly mourn all that he's lost.

His planet just exploded, he rationalizes. Perhaps he can afford a little bit of weakness.

-

The Asgardians are settled in Norway. It seems appropriate to begin anew in the place where Odin spent his last days.

Loki can't say he likes it much. He'd prefer New York—it  _is_ where he tried to take over, and it  _is_ where he tried to put the Allfather—but the Asgardians would not do well in such a city, not to mention that Loki would likely be recognized as  _That Asshole Who Tried To Conquer The Planet.  
_

He keeps busy. He's still royalty, and his people treat him as such, though with a healthy amount of caution. He and Thor work tirelessly to get everyone settled. The Norwegian government officials that quickly become involved are understanding and fairly kind (apparently having an Avenger living in your country is seen as a good thing and an asset, who knew?), and Loki has hope that the Asgardians will come to see Midgard as home.

-

He has a small apartment near the Asgardian settlement, and it's comfortable; he knows that someday conjuring money out of nowhere is going to catch up with him and he'll have to lie and  _seiðr_ his way out of a prison sentence, but he has no intention of working for money and so he just brings enough money into existence to pay for the necessities.

It's...comfortable. Boring.

He has to get off this planet.

He's in his empty, cold bed, unable to sleep and willing time to pass faster. In the morning he has a meeting with this group of oddball misfits, new friends of Thor's who call themselves Guardians. They're a ridiculous bunch, and the only reason Loki is taking the time to meet with them is because they have a ship that can easily travel between worlds, and they apparently travel to Knowhere with fair regularity.

If anyone at all has a chance of being able to find and summon the Grandmaster, it's his brother, and Loki happens to know that Knowhere is where Taneleer Tivan lives. So Loki is going to do whatever it takes to secure passage to Knowhere on that ship of theirs. This is his only chance; spacefaring vessels on this backward planet are pathetically limited, so he's going to make a good impression on these Guardians if it kills him.

He curls up tighter beneath his blankets, missing the warmth of Sakaar, the plush velveteen bedclothes, the ridiculous opulence. Most of all, he misses his twin flame, misses playing with him, trading jokes, exploring the tower, flirting, kissing, sleeping beside him at night; he misses their thoughtbonds, misses feeling someone else nearby. He misses being needed, wanted; he misses having someone who matches his intelligence; he misses En Dwi so badly it hurts.

If the Collector cannot locate or summon his brother, then Loki will have to procure his own vessel and go looking by himself. He'll have to glamour the entire ship; the Grandmaster can sense his  _seiðr_ , so he'll have to make the entire damn thing a beacon.

His eyes close but sleep doesn't come. Sleep hasn't been easy to achieve since he left Sakaar, and when he does sleep, it's usually filled with nightmares.

He's finally teetering on the edge of dreams when he feels a warmth in his mind, a familiar buzzing of old magic and for a split second he thinks he's dreaming it but then his eyes snap open and at the same time he hears

"Hey there, Prince Hobo. Mind if I crash here?"

Loki is out of bed within a millisecond, throwing the covers aside and leaping to his feet and every particle of his being is screaming to get as close as he can to the source of that warmth and there in the doorway stands the Grandmaster; Loki is working on autopilot and he closes the distance between them, wraps his arms around the man and holds him like he's never going to let go. The Grandmaster does the same, arms winding around Loki, holding him close. Loki can feel him again, his emotions, dampened but there; happiness and relief radiate from him and Loki finds himself laughing, little hiccuping noises, a little hysterical.

Loki isn't sure who kisses who first, but it doesn't really matter.

"I'm sorry," Loki murmurs in the tiny space between them, "I left you, but I—"

"It's okay," the Grandmaster says, "nothing could keep us apart for, for too long. It's okay."

Loki barely hears him. "I—I left you with a revolution under way. I left you al—"

"No," the Grandmaster interrupts him, shakes his head. "Loki, no." He pulls back enough to look Loki in the eyes. "If I could have saved my people, I would have done anything. You had to."

"I did have to," Loki agrees, "but I still left you. Had there been another way—"

"There wasn't, there wasn't another way, Loki, you know it and I know it," the Grandmaster says, "so it's—it's not worth thinking about."

"How did you find me?" Loki asks, "how is Sakaar, what happened after I left, what—?"

"Whoah, lots of, uh. Lots of questions there," the Grandmaster says, running a hand through Loki's hair absently, affectionately. Stars above, Loki had missed this; he leans into the touch, eyes closing. "Twin flames find each other, Loki, that's the way it works. As for the rest of, the rest of the questions, wow, a lot went down." He lets out a sigh. "Here's the highlights. My little ship, well, there was a—a sudden spike of gravity, and it had a very unfortunate collision with the ground."

Loki winces. He crashed his ship. A sudden spike of gravity, indeed. The Grandmaster continues. "I get out of the wreckage and, oh man, angry mob, right? _Big_ angry mob. Impressive, actually. Not that I'm surprised, dictators usually, uh, get overthrown."

"I thought you could restore your rule," Loki murmurs, "I thought—"

"Oh, yeah, no, I definitely could have," the Grandmaster says, "you were right. But I've been on Sakaar for—oh, long time. Long time. Years. Millions of 'em. And the thing is, the thing is, Loki, dictators, they're kinda _meant_ to be overthrown. Power to the uh, the people, and all. I had my fun on that planet. Maybe it's time to, maybe it's time for me to move on." He gives a lopsided smile. "Whaddya say, twin flame? Wanna move on together?"

"It would be my pleasure," Loki says, smiling so hard his face hurts until the Grandmaster kisses him again.

-

They lay low in Loki's apartment for several days and in that time they hardly leave Loki's bed. The Grandmaster has upgraded it, rearranged and added matter to make it resemble their bed on Sakaar, sinfully soft and warm.

"Ooh." Loki nestles into the bed with an appreciative noise. "Oh, yes. This is good."

"I can do you one better," the Grandmaster says playfully, and he does.

-

No matter how nice the bed is, or how comfortable Loki is in his twin flame's arms, in his sleep he still sees Asgard burning.

It is a large mercy when the Grandmaster senses his distress, extends his thoughts and carefully guides Loki back into reality. Loki gasps awake, shivering, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The Grandmaster is there as he calms down, murmuring quiet words of reassurance until Loki can relax again.

"Thank you," Loki finally says.

"It's no problem, my dear prince," the Grandmaster replies. "You're too young to have faced this," he adds, unmeasurable sorrow behind his tone.

Loki rests his head on the Grandmaster's chest. The Grandmaster's hand moves soothingly up and down his back, grounding, reassuring.

After a moment he picks his head up to meet the Grandmaster's eyes. "Do you remember your world?" he asks quietly, then "no, it was so long ago. Never mind."

The Grandmaster is quiet as Loki rests his head on his chest again. Loki is almost asleep when the Grandmaster finally speaks.

"I remember," he says, barely audible. "Twelve billion years ago and I remember like it was today."

Loki stays silent; he reaches for the Grandmaster's hand, laces their fingers together.

"It was hot," the Grandmaster murmurs. "The sky was red. Six moons. Lots of... lots of rocks. Caves. The beaches, the rocks on the shore were worn smooth, and they were always hot. You could just walk on them with your bare feet. The water, always warm. Geothermal." He sighs. "I—I'd walk out, in the morning. Look in the tide pools. So much, so much life, everywhere you looked."  _And it's gone_ , is what goes unsaid.

An awful sadness radiates from the Grandmaster, not hurting like a fresh stab wound, but aching, more like a terrible bruise that never healed.

"Does it ever get easier?" Loki asks.

"No," the Grandmaster says after a long moment. "It just gets older."

 

-

sixteen months later

-

 

"I can't believe you got into fighting again," Loki says, settling into the Grandmaster's lap.

"It's MMA, not a, ah, a gladiatorial thing. Very different," the Grandmaster protests.

"Different perhaps, but no less barbaric."

"Aw, well, that's half the fun," the Grandmaster says with an attempted wink. The Grandmaster has made an obscene amount of money from his newfound hobby, however; he bets on his fighters—champions, he insists—and they usually win. Loki can't argue with the results, even if he finds the sport disinteresting.

Of course, fighting isn't the only thing the Grandmaster has discovered; he's reveling in the new games created by Midgardians since his last trip to this branch of Yggdrasil millions of years ago. He favors rugby and lacrosse, particularly vicious sports; but he also takes a particular delight in video games, watching "e-sports" tournaments and challenging Loki to Tetris matches.

He actually makes bets not just on fights, but on almost every other sport imaginable. The Grandmaster has manufactured a facsimile of his Sakaarian palace with the money he's made (and with some good old-fashioned bending of reality); a building in downtown New York where his favored fighters and contestants and champions of all sorts live and train. There's extra room too, and so it operates rather like a hotel.

Selene keeps the damn place running. Loki keeps her glamoured so that she doesn't seem out of place; she's quick to learn American sign, and delighted to find an entire community here in the city of others who share her deafness. She and her girlfriend both live in their own suite; Loki and En Dwi have no concerns about the well-being of the new palace when they leave, and leave they do, rather often—there’s an entire universe out there, the Grandmaster has seen a lot of it, and he’s desperate to show Loki his favorite places.

"So when is your next battle?" Loki asks, "do we have time for dinner? A quick game?"

"My next battle is three entire days away," the Grandmaster says with a wave of his hand, "we can do whatever! We can go to Xandar, or Alfheim, or—"

"How about the arcade," Loki says. "Three days isn’t long enough for a vacation, but there is an arcade on fifth and Pine.” Loki was there a few days ago, scoping it out for date potential while the Grandmaster attended a match. There's games there that Loki had never seen before. He wonders if the Grandmaster will like Whack-a-Mole. “Have you ever played skee ball?"

"Pardon? No, can't, uh, can't say that rings a bell."

Loki grins.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is the single longest fic i've ever posted and its a fucking mess. can now check 'write jeff goldblum porn' off my bucket list though, so there's that
> 
> i don't really know how this happened. the last 4k or so of this fic was written last night between the hours of... 7pm and 3am, probably? i had very little control over what was written. i kind of just held on and screamed the entire time. like a particular shaky roller coaster where you can hear the metal creaking and you kinda wonder if you're gonna survive it
> 
> title from "Wave" by thepetebox. definitely recommend taking a listen, it's a lovely sweet song that for some reason makes me think of these unrepentantly awful bastards


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